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Dickson College Library: Library Writing Competition

The Dickson College Library Writing Competition was started in 2009 and is held each year during September and October. Three winning entries are chosen and published here on the Library wiki and in Glyph, the English faculty wiki. The writers also receive a $50 prize. Congratulations to all the writers!

2016 Winners

What do you want to be when you grow up? by Clare Taylor

That the late nights and early mornings in front of a screen
Vomiting out words that tested and defined my value
And seemingly endless hours learning our universe
Would carry more than just an educational price tag.
That the blooming diversity and adversity,
Like intertwined daisies and nightshade vying for sun,
Our own remixed battle of David and Goliath,
Could let the underdog in our halls win for once too.

That these students, people, who are disintegrating,
Doused in acidic stress disorders and depression,
Burdened with future-filled freight of prospect and deadlines,
Could survive this and flourish under different suns.
That our hurdle-like mountains which make us cynical,
Because we are told we are too young to have any
And because we are knocked down when we try to climb them,
Would one day return to the earth and let us grow up.

We are crumbling underneath the weight of ourselves
And everything we’ve been told we are going to be;
We are dismissed when we want to help save our futures
But are scorned when we get tired of trying to fight.

‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’, don’t mock me.
I just want to become someone who knows survivors and
I want to be someone who loves the sunshine and
I want to be someone who can help make things better.

So in the end, I just want to be proud of myself.

New York is cold nearly every autumn, especially in October, but today it was 73.4°F, which is cold enough to wear boots but not a scarf

by Kashmira Mohamed Zagor

"Her name was Connie. She was so cute and, like, small; I could pick her up and rub her belly. Oh, she loved that. Anyway, I have this thing with dogs, they have to be named in alphabetical order. When Connie died I got Dusty, and Elkie is the newest addition to the family. She's a German Shepard, gorgeous dog,didn't realise he'd grow so big though. She takes up, like, most of my apartment. God, you don't want to hear all this, I'm talking too much. Sorry, I should've asked more questions about you."
"That's okay, Amelia. I've enjoyed talking to you."
"Silly me, I'm like, so all over the place. Anyway, enjoy your evening. I hope to hear from you soon."
"Sure."

Why isn't he calling?

	"Time's up! Please move to the next table."

"Hi, I'm Sharon. But you already knew that by my name tag. And by yours I can see your name is Dev. I don't normally do this sort of thing, I mean, I always thought it was kind of weird honestly, but then my friend Cassandra, well, we all call her Cassie, Cassie said that her cousin Molly met her new boyfriend at a speed dating club in the Midtown West, and it worked out really well so I thought, why not try it, I'm 29 and I'm still perky in all the right places."
"Midtown West, you must live near the theatre district then. I used to go see shows on Broadway all the time. That was before ticket prices skyrocketed. I'm not supposed to admit that I like musical theatre though. Not a particularly masculine quality I suppose."
"Well, if you could afford to be a frequent theatre-goer you must have some money in the bank. What do you do for a living?"
“I’m an art director, so nothing too fancy. I was one of the lucky ones, I mean, internship while I was in college that turned into a job once I graduated, that sort of thing."

He told me he would call around this time.

"You sound like my kind of man. Down-to-earth, sexy, rich, do you have any flaws?"
"Well, when I was 18, my girlfriend's best friend stabbed somebody with a hunting knife that she bought online and I never told the police about it. I'm kidding. I believe the flaws to be limited, though some of my ex-partners may disagree."
"The words 'some of' make it sound like there have been many."
"Semantics, Sharon."

"You have 30 seconds remaining. If there is anything that needs to be said, say it now."

"I might as well say it. I'm not here to simply find someone cute and have sex. People don't spend $45 for that. If you can't offer me something more, I won't waste my time."
"I appreciate the honesty. You may need to keep looking. Sorry."
"Good luck, Dev."


This isn't how it was supposed to happen.

	"Time's up! Please move to the next table."

"Hello."
"Hi, Leah. Lovely to meet you."
"You too. I like your tie. It reminds me of the curtains in my Gran’s house. She lived by the ocean, and they would catch the light so nicely in the mornings. Your tie has that same quality. Makes me think of the sea, I guess."
"Thank you. Hey, there's no need to be nervous." "Sorry, it's a disgusting habit I kn-"
"That's not what I mea-"
"No, no, it's okay. It is. My mom hated me biting my nails when I was little. She told me I'd end up with a horrible infection and that all my fingers would eventually fall off. I think she said that to scare me into stopping, but clearly, it didn't work."


Oh no. We should've been finished by now.


"I just didn't want you to feel uncomfortable with me. That's all."
"Oh."
"Tell me more about yourself, Leah. Have you always lived in New York?"
"I used to live in Cali. I was born in Santa Barbara but I grew up in Santa Monica. We lived very close to Venice Beach. I love my hometown. It was always so warm.You wouldn't believe how good the Mexican food is in SaMo... quesadillas that oozed cheese and... stung your nostrils with spices. During high school we would eat until our stomachs felt... I can't describe it. Then we would lie on the sand until the sun went down."
"I spent a summer in Santa Monica. Fell in love with a woman named Raven. We spent three weeks together and then she left for college. I've never been back."
"That's so sad. Honestly, I haven't been home for a while either." "Why is that?"
"Oh, no, Dev, I don't want to bore you."
"You won't."


Phone's ringing. He's going to be angry.


"Umm okay. The day before my SATs, I came home and my dad's car wasn't parked in the driveway. He always parked in the driveway. He had so many routines, and if they were messed about he got very upset. The sprinklers were on. My socks got wet standing on the grass after I found him. Lying with his semi-automatic by his side. God, he loved the thing. Kept it so clean for all those years. Took it carefully from its case each week, dusting every inch from handle to trigger. Couldn't help think how he would've hated the mess. Blood everywhere. I didn't do anything; just waited until Mom got home. After they came in and took the body away Mom sat me down, dry-eyed. She told me to do my SATs no matter what. So I took the exams. And after the funeral my acceptance letter from Johns Hopkins arrived. That was it, just got on a plane and left. Sure, I went back for important birthdays and various family members' bar mitzvahs, but never stayed longer than was necessary. After graduation, the move from Baltimore to New York was easy. By then,I was used to the cold."


"You have 30 seconds remaining. If there is anything that needs to be said, say it now."


"Leah, I'm-"
"No, its-"
"Can I see you again?"
"Dev, I feel like I should tell you someth- PETER!"
"CUT. Brenda, darling, we're supposed to be doing a full run."
"Peter, I've asked you to call me 'Leah' while we're rehearsing, please. I don't like to break character."
"Okay, what's happenin' sweetheart?"
"His phone keeps going off. Literally every few minutes it vibrates so loud I can feel it under the table. I thought you talked to him about this. How am I expected to be falling in love with Dev when his PHONE keeps BEEPING, reminding me that I'm just sitting ACROSS FROM KAVIL."
"Brenda, honey, try not to shriek-"
"LEAH."
"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a knurl. Kavil, for Christ's sake, we open in a week. Everyone else left their phones backstage as instructed, so can you turn the goddamn thing on do not disturb, or off or somethin'. We got 15 minutes till we break for suppah, couddantya just wait till then."
"Pete, man, I told you today is a big day. C'mon, you know me; I wouldn't have my phone onstage if it weren't important. Look, let me step outside and call the guy back. Then we can go again from the top."
"Alright, but make it quick wouldya."

	"Time's up! Please move to the next table."

"James, sorry, I was rehearsing. Please tell me it's good news."
"Kavil? Hello?"
"James, can you hear me?"
"Hey, you're breaking up a lot, line’s fuzzy."
''I'll take my headphones out, hold up. That better? Let's make this quick, it's getting dark out here."
"It ain't good news, Kavil-"
"Hang on, let me light a smoke-"
"DROP THE PHONE."


God help me, I've been found.


"Get down on your motherf*ing' knees."

He's got a gun.
"Hands above your head."

The barrel is so cold.
"30 seconds. If there is anything that needs to be said, say it now."

Don't shiver.
"Time's up."

Her artless way by Felicity Nelmes

.

---

2014 Winners

Tiger by Kahlil Perusco

Michael lay in wait. Just like he waited every other day. Just like his dreams, which these days consisted only of waiting. Day in, and day out, and now in the nights as well. He heard a rustle in the ferns to his left but he knew better than to get hopeful. Instead he slowed his breathing and inch by inch turned his head towards the sound, exhaling slowly and reaching for his rifle. Taking his time, planning his movements carefully, he flicked the safety off and slowly cocked the weapon. Click. No matter how many times he shot blindly at movement in the long grass, only to find a frightened, little rock wallaby, he still got excited when he heard the rustling. The small chance that his elusive prey was there, that he would see it, prove to everyone that he was right. His wife, the kids, the bank loans officer, his mother; god rest her soul, all those who had doubted him, who had doubted that the creature even existed: To prove them wrong would be impossibly gratifying. It was the reason he trudged up here every week, lay all day in the grass, ate cold baked beans for all three meals and did his business in plastic bags. The tiger was out there, he had seen her, a dark little shape between the trees. All he needed was another glimpse. This time with the camera. It was fairly easy to save dole money when all you bought was baked beans and paraffin oil, and if he could turn the damned, little thing on he was confident that he would be able to collect some tangible proof of the tiger.

The rustling in the ferns stopped suddenly, as if the source had become aware of his presence. He raised his hunting rifle and planted the stock firmly in his shoulder. There was a loud click of the rifle being cocked. Michael froze, that click wasn’t him. He’d cocked his rifle nearly thirty seconds ago, the click had come from the direction of the ferns. Michael dived down into the long grass and lay motionless, his rifle pointed, quivering, in the direction of the sound. He’d read something once, in a book. Suppressing Fire? Suppressive Fire? Well whatever it was it meant firing first and gain the advantage. He decided that was the best course of action. He steadied himself and took aim at a shadow in the grass. Whoever was there would know they’d been spotted and, hopefully, panic.

Michael pulled the trigger and the gun jerked back into his arm, the bark of a black wattle at the edge of the tree line exploded in a cloud of sawdust as the noise echoed off the valley walls and a flock of birds erupted from the canopy and soared skyward. Through the haze of smoke from the barrel he could see a flurry of movement. Michael eyes widened, a brown blur burst through the smoke. It was a lyrebird, startled and terrified. It screeched as it ran, full pelt at the gun barrel. Michael stared in disbelief as it charged him, jumped clean over his body with a loud click and fled into the low scrub. Michael heaved himself up onto his knee and took aim the fleeing bird. Crack. Crack. Crack. Michael’s shots whistled through the low scrub, kicking up tufts of grass and plumes of dirt until there was a thud. Feathers exploded into the night air and slowly danced down into the grass. The mangled carcass of the bird tumbled head over heels and skidded to a halt in the dust. Michael spat in the dirt.
“Got ya’, ya f'n thing.”

He hoisted his ruck by the frame and trudged after his dying dinner. He picked the bird up, thumped it against a tree to get rid of the dust and tied the feet to his pack. He would need to get to higher ground before the evening dew rendered all the available kindling damp and useless. He shouldered his pack and marched on through the gloom of the trees, wheezing through the dusk air in the aftermath of the unforeseen exertion. Michael came to a halt on a small knoll and threw his pack down in the long grass. Darkness had fallen and the orange tinge on the horizon was all that remained of what had been, in Michael's limited vernacular, 'a real scorcher'. The glorious day was replaced by a comparatively unremarkable night. The moon was just a sliver in the sky, with was scattered with clouds, preventing all but a tantalizing glimpse of the stars. The stars were often the only thing that made Michael's lonesome nights bearable.

He rested only for a moment. There was a welcoming breeze on the knoll, which rose above the cover of the gumtrees, and for now it was pleasantly cool, but it would soon turn cold and frigid. He would want to have cooked his dinner and be tucked away in his sleeping bag before then. Leaving his pack and his dinner on the hillock, he returned into the woods to retrieve the kindling he had spotted, for now he was capable of bending down to pick it up without his pack pulling him arse overhead. Michael had always enjoyed living in the bush, ever since he'd learned it in the service. The army had been too good to be true. They'd taught him to think for himself, to endeavor. They'd taught a city boy like him to march for miles and how to pack a backpack, they'd taught him how to track and how to hunt and even how to ski, which was rare for a poor fucker like him back in the 80's. It was also the first and last time in his life where women had found him attractive, but by the time he left he had already convinced Angie to marry him. He didn't have a bad word about the forces. Although, he suspected that getting out in the 90's before Australia went to the Middle East had something to do with that.

He once again ascended the knoll, a faggot of kindling under his right arm, and a large branch hoisted over the other shoulder. He lay both down and began arranging the fire. The kindling was laid out carefully over a small firestarter cube and was lit with his waterproof matches. The smoke smelt sweet and strongly of eucalyptus. The branch was then broken up and propped up against the kindling. The fire was burning nicely.

Michael plucked the lyrebird, pulling out flesh and skin as he did. There was a reason Michael’s typical diet consisted only of baked beans; he was a god-awful cook. This lyrebird would be charred all over and almost raw on the inside, just like the last animal he cooked: a rock wallaby which he had seen jump off a ledge and break its neck. Michael missed food. Home cooked food. He liked the pies and coke that he bought when he was in town buying supplies, but he missed his wife’s cooking. Actually, he missed everything about his wife. She was beautiful, she was sweet and caring, and he missed her touch. Why had he ever left? He missed his kids, he missed family Christmases and he missed his dog.
Michael shifted the now cooking bird, exposing raw flesh. He looked up at the stars, they were piercing and resolute against the infinite depth of the surrounding sky. The sun was gone, the moon instead shone bright across the valley, showering the trees in a pale luminescence. This was a good a night as any. He pulled his pack over towards him and reached for his wallet, the crusty leather creaked as it stretched open. Mixed in with his collection of 5 cent coins was a small piece of paper with the picture of a tree on it. It went on the tip of his tongue.

Michael lay back and let the coolness of the grass sooth his sun baked skin. Kicking his boots off and stretching his aching feet, he waited. The tab would open his mind to new possibilities. Where was she hiding? Why weren’t his traps working? Even with the bait? Michael pondered. His brow furrowed. Wait, no. Michael chuckled. He was trying to force it. Rookie mistake. He turned onto his side, letting his eyes drift over the valley. The trees in the canopy appeared as two-dimensional, cardboards cutouts. The stars winked invitingly at him from the milky darkness of the sky and the searing, cold moon rays hit his eye like a big pizza pie. “That’s amore! Badum da dadum da di da da di do da that’s amore…” blissfully, ignorantly atonal. Solitude had its perks, but they grew fewer and further between for a man in his age. This euphoria was one of the last. This drug induced ecstasy was more than a fun time for Michael: it was his escape. This release was the mirage that he blocked out his life with his own little nirvana. It was, all at once, his favourite hobby, his only friend, his way to enlightenment, and his favourite band.

That was it! Brilliant! Why had he not thought of this before? Ingenious, and all it would take was to quadruple his trap numbers and start hunting. It was perfect. And the benefits to this method were enticing. He could eat an animal every night this way. Michael was up on his feet now, dancing with the moon and clapping along with the fire. This was the answer, and it was so simple! Kill all the living things in the entire area and wait for the tiger to become so hungry that she exposes herself. Military Strategy 101. Wait, no. That wouldn’t work. He would have to lug around all of the carcasses or the tiger would just be getting a free meal whenever it wanted. Michael sat down and sighed. He could have sworn he had it that time.

The next realization came as no surprise. The delicious scent of roasting lyre bird had transformed into the pungent odor of burnt lyre bird. Michael broke. He wanted his wife. His wife who never burnt the dinner, his wife who cared for him, looked out for him. He needed someone to do that after all these years. He shuddered, the light of the moon blurred through his tears, light which refracted and broke into a myriad of colours, innumerous in their number yet each one discernible from the next. Michael’s epiphany came. He could see his two options now, literally see the two paths he had before him. To the south the mountain, wild and malevolent, surrounded by its fortress of gums and haunted with the calls of feral dogs. The moon hung above it, like a goal he could never reach, that he could only ever aspire to: The tiger. To the north lay the valley, its waving wattles and winding brooks inviting him along. Michael sat, wiped his face and stared at the moon for the answer. She would guide him.

The mountain, the tiger, living bush, they would be his end. He would stumble and break a leg, die like an animal. Or he would go mad from isolation and turn his gun on himself, or he could just keel over from a heart attack. Another six months and he would he would be naught but a mountain troll, smoking herbs and eating the bushwalkers who dared approach his knoll. Nope, he couldn’t do it. Every man needs a castle. Michael needed his, he needed his queen, his heirs, and their royal hound. That’s where the valley led, to a glorious return after exile from his lost kingdom. The moon answered in the only way it could. It began stretching its rays into Michael’s vision, an all-encompassing, smoky, hazy light; radiating from a godlike orb. It was all Michael could comprehend. The light began to shift. Hours passed, the sun rose and set in his mind’s eye and drool cascaded from Michael’s open mouth. The moon’s rays had shifted, crept across the valley: illuminating the streams, the grass rippling in the wind, and Michael’s way.

Great plumes of dust erupted from the rear of the vehicle. The speed rose with Michael’s blood pressure, and he was flying. The visual affects of the acid had not died, the heat radiating off the road did more than waiver and wobble. Michael swerved to miss another slithering komodo dragon. The euphoric enlightenment, however, had completely departed him and he was alone with his reality. In his condition he has abandoned his pack, taken forty-five minutes to find the keys underneath the car. The sobering experience of high speed had brought the painful side effect of recollection. Not of why he was leaving the bush, but why he had left his home all those years ago.

Michael remembered, he remembered what he’d tried to use the tiger to forget. The kids were gone and they weren’t coming back. Why would they? The moving van had only been gone twenty minutes on the way to their youngest daughter’s Uni when Angie had filed for divorce.

“Sign these and pack your things,” Michael mimicked. His blood pressure rose further. So did the speed.

“F* you, you bitch!” Michael screamed to the empty car. “I didn’t sign it then and I ain’t signing shit now!”

“You’re always so aggressive, blah blah blah,”
“You’re always a psycho passive aggressive bitch,”
The adrenaline, the rage and the leftover acid erupted through Michael’s shaking figure.
“I’ve found someone else.”
“F*!” Michael’s fury tore through his body, his arms in spasm, and his blood throbbing in his veins.
“His name’s Dan,” Michael frothed at the mouth like a beast “He’s good to me.”
“Shit!” A blur of movement darted onto the road.
“No,” Michael turned the wheel hard and slammed the break. He turned, began to skid until his wheels locked and he went airborne. The vehicle somersaulted over the blur and pommelled itself against a tree. The car turtled.
“What the actual f***?” Michael hung upside down from his seatbelt. Through the blood that streamed from his eyes, and the acid, which was going crazy on adrenaline, Michael could make out the shape of a dog. It was long, with a large head and stripes along its back.
“You’re f'n welcome,” said Michael as the tiger padded over to Michael and sniffed him. Michael had his final epiphany. He reached out his hand and slapped the tiger hard across the nose. The tiger growled and lunged forward, biting Michael’s arm and sinking its teeth straight to the bone before bounding into the trees. Michael inspected the wound.
"Proof," he said.
And closed his eyes.

Partners in Crime by Lauren O'Flaherty

We raced from the room with the high arches and gold-plated counters, ten thousand dollars richer and with an ecstatic sense of accomplishment. No one came after us. We were free, we were rogue. Magnus gripped my hand, pulling me to him, his chest heaving against me as his breathing slowed. He checked the hallway with wide eyes. His pupils were dilated and I could sense he was high, if not from drugs, then just from this feeling.

A faint wail came from outside. Although far away, there was the distinct rise and fall as it came closer. From the second floor we could see the parking lot and the industrial buildings beyond that. The clouds reflected the dull grey of the buildings. Flashing lights began to appear, weaving through the streets. Red and blue rotated and sirens drew closer to the mall. Magnus pulled the balaclava free from his head and wiped the sweat off his brow. I glanced at him, taking in his curly brown hair, his pale blue eyes. The sweat glistening on his cheek bones. His teeth biting hard into his lip.

A voice growled from the direction of the bank. A burly man with a tribal tattoo advanced, and before I realised what was happening I had shot him in the kneecap. The bloke collapsed to the floor and began to sob. Magnus laughed and ran through the hallways, his hand clutching mine, pulling me along. He slowed down and kissed me, looking at me with such lust. He resembled a god; solid stance, shoulders back, feeling immortal. He was able to see himself as powerful. I beamed, knowing that it was my presence that was giving him that feeling. We were a perfect match. I craved his lips and tried to get his attention but his focus had shifted, downwards to another obstacle.

“Don’t move!” A deep voice called from below. “The police are just out the front. Drop the gun and put your hands up,” a security guard said, looking up the stairwell. He attempted to reason with Magnus, but with no luck he ducked back under a flight of stairs to safety.

Magnus looked at me and grinned; the power he had grown aware of had entranced him. He clung to me as he leaned over the railing and pulled the trigger. A badly timed glance collided with a bullet. My whole body shook as the blast echoed around the stairwell. I could see Magnus open one eye as he tried to assess the damage of the security guard. He slowly descended the stairs, checking up and down every few seconds for any threat. On the bottom step was a man, his body collapsed in a bloody mess, brains spread across the room. Blood seeped from the gruesome cavity in his head, and across the floor. Pieces of fragmented skull were scattered everywhere, including a dislodged set of teeth. The man’s face was disfigured beyond recognition.

Magnus looked at me. He looked at me with such shock, such disgust. He acted like he blamed me for the dead guy. But he had pulled the trigger. He had been the one with all the power, the hatred, and the willingness to kill. I’d just been an instrument in the crime, I did nothing wrong. I wanted to say something but I couldn’t. I wanted to scream, to tell him to man up and face the crime he had committed. But I couldn’t. Magnus jumped over the final step and released his grasp from mine. He let go of me and fled the room, daring himself to glance back once more at the man before he rounded the corner. I was left alone, shocked, unable to move.


“Sergeant Dowe, you might want to see this,” Detective Antill said, gesturing to a chunk of metal on the floor. He reached forward and picked a revolver up off the cold concrete.
Dark red gore dripped everywhere. Clots were oozing out of the barrel and some blood had crusted around the trigger and grip. The gun itself was made from brass and bore intricate engravings. A scalpel chipped away some crust, revealing an ivory handle.
The sergeant studied me, turning me over until he was satisfied. I was handed back to the detective, who dropped me into an evidence bag.
“Let’s hope we find your owner soon.”

Skin by Brianna Muir

Today I have on my second skin.

It is not truly my second though, or my third, or even my thirteenth. No, I lost track of counting how many different skins I have worn sometime after the two-hundred-and-eight-third. After all, time starts to lose its meaning when one has lived as long as I; which is to say the better part of five millennia.

But for now, it is my second skin. And although it is nothing like my true one, it will suffice.

Pushing myself up from the cold timber floor, I look at the surroundings that I will inhabit for the foreseeable future. In the dim light of the morning winter sun, I can see that a double bed with a polished steel frame sits in the corner of the room, its blankets unmade and pushed to the side. A large bookshelf lies across from it, and next to that, a small computer table, messed with notes and papers. It is a typical teenage abode.

Currently, the whole room seems dishevelled, although I believe it was this skin that had caused it. The soul – Sarah, her name is – resisted strongly; thrashing and fighting in a desperate attempt to keep her body.

But she had fallen all the same; I am immortal, I am powerful, and above all I do not bind myself with the God-made invention of morals. When I need something, I take it.

That is not to say I am always cruel. I have no destroyed Sarah, merely taken control of her body. She is still here, and I can feel her now, quiet and resigned.

“Why me?”

“It was nothing personal, mortal. Now, co-operate, and give me your memories, your thoughts, your beliefs. I must act like you, and no-one must suspect a thing. Sabotage me in any way, and I will walk you straight off the nearest bridge.”

It is a lie, not that Sarah knows.

If her body dies, I will perish.

If she is exorcised, I will perish.

If she realises that with the right words she can force me out, I will perish.

Oh, how the mighty fall. I utterly loathe having to live in and depend on mortal bodies, but ever since I lost my true body, I have had no choice. Had I not possessed a corporeal form after my body’s death, my soul would surely have followed. And if God’s personal soldiers, The Powers, find me, they will have no trouble finishing what they tried to do all those centuries ago.

In these mortal skins, I am weak. But I am also safe from those sent to finish the job the Powers have failed.

“I heard a noise. Are you alright?” A deep, baritone voice called from downstairs, no doubt Sarah’s father. Pausing, I prompt Sarah for a plausible reply.

I’m clumsy.

“I just tripped.” A honey-sweet voice calls back, so different from my own. It is nothing new, but it is still strange to hear such a difference voice when I speak.

”Be careful, Sweetie.” Sarah’s father replies. “Keep getting ready for school; I’ll drop you off today.”

“Okay,” I reply with my new voice. Next, I try to stand. No matter how many times you possess bodies, skins are always stiff and uncoordinated at first; not unlike trying to walk after a long slumber. Nevertheless, I force myself to stand up, and shuffle to the mirror.

The sight that greets me is a rather pretty one, if one I don’t see often. Sarah’s skin has jet black hair, similar to what mine used to be. She has a smooth face, dark in colour, like the rest of her. She has an aura though, one that seems to be golden. Looking into her memories, I can see that those around her trust her and her friendly smile. On this beautiful young skin, there is no trace of evil.

It is perfect. None shall see past this façade, into the true core of this ghostly armour.
Dressing the skin in clean and newly-ironed school clothes, I pack what I need for the day into a worn-leather satchel as Sarah lists what is required.

“Pencil case. Books for English, French, Maths. Textbook copy of The Importance of Being Earnest…”

I let Sarah’s thoughts flow as if they are my own. For the foreseeable future, after all, I will have to be Sarah; thinking, talking and acting like her.

Ready, I step out the door. I am no longer me. I am Sarah.

---

2013 Winners

Coloured vision by Isha Hekkert Menon

On the surface she could see little ridges, like the veins on her arms. Edges serrated, every rise catching her fingers. All bowed to the tip which curled away. It was rich green on the sky-turned side. Others grew on brown sticks that grew from one thick stump. Baby ones grew over brown crumbling dead ones that disintegrated in her hands. Dead ones lay everywhere. She created a little mound of them and plunged. Enclosed in a fluttering storm of crackles, she opened her eyes.

“Hello, my dear,” the Doctor said “Your parents tell me you’ve been a bit strange of late.” She remained still. The Doctor’s smile stretched to show stalactite rows of sharp teeth.
“A little nervous, I see. You don’t have to be. I’m here to fix you. What is your name?”
She made no sound. Eyes remained focused on his hands. He chuckled.
“Another time then.”
The Doctor knelt and brought himself to her height. “Your parents tell me that you have scary dreams.”
The Subject twitched. “Not scary.”
“No?”
“The dreams aren’t scary. They’re ...” As she looked into the Doctor’s eyes, her mind slammed shut.
“What are they like?”
“I can’t remember now.”
The Doctor bit back a smile. He knew the Subject thought he couldn’t understand her. But of course he could. In his world, there were no mysteries. He chortled and rose to his feet. “Alright, I’ve been misinformed. Tell me what your dreams are while I do some checks.”
The Doctor walked to a small bench of bottles near the Subject’s head. Her eyes were bound to him. Another chuckle.
“Don’t worry my dear. Talk and I’ll listen.”
She assembled some pre-prepared lies.
“Well, there’s a white room, with white walls and a white ceiling.”

The Doctor felt an unwinding in his chest. She thought he wouldn’t see through her ruse. No matter. He pulled out a needle, cradling a vial in his other hand. Cold beams of light sliced through the shimmering clear liquid and exited warped, distorted, disturbed. She saw the needle approaching and swatted the precious tube out of the Doctor’s hand. It shattered, along with dozens of other bottles she backhanded.
“That was a very expensive medicine,” the Doctor said.

Tears paved walkways from the Subject’s eyes to her lap. Everyone on Earth had disappeared into a coffin, studded with iron nails, beauty and emotion-proof. Everyone but her. They watched her every breath. Now, they all jeered at her.
“I am trying to cure you. Your parents were so repulsed that they could barely lay their eyes on you.” The Doctor’s hiss echoed through the lab. He scrubbed his stained gloves. “Stop whimpering. Take a towel and clean up.”

The Subject fell out of her chair and crawled towards the chemical puddle. Bottles bled, clear tasteless liquids creeping along tiles to form miniature rivers in the gaps. She balled a towel in one fist, and raised it. One creeping river crashed into another. She watched as transparency mingled with transparency to birth colour.

Colour became a crack of light in the corners of a pungent cell. It threw her into a gigantic chamber of painted glass. Her throat swelled as it breathed new currents of energy. It reached a long tendril into the darkest corner of her mind. And pulled.

She remembered now. Her hands cupped a puddle of colour. Fingers dipped into it. Visions painted themselves across the laboratory’s white walls.
“What are you doing?” The Doctor stood behind her.
The Subject raised her head.“I remember.”
“Stop it.”
“I remember my dreams, Doctor.”
“Get your hands off my walls.”
The Doctor swiped at the sweat collecting on his upper lip. White-gloved hands tightened into fists.
“Clean yourself up. Get that filth off.”
“It’s not filth, Doctor. It’s just paint.”
“Get away from me!” He clawed at the Subject’s hand. Horrible little bitch.
“Doctor, look at the walls. Those are my dreams. You wanted to know.”
“No!”

Starved their entire lives, his eyes hungered for colour. Mind blared alarms. It had been content until that moment to rot in sewers of unchanged and un-renewed knowledge. The Doctor’s coffin sank in these new waters. Torrents of colour gushed in through gaps among the hinges. He couldn’t breathe. The Doctor had never before tasted tears.
“You miserable little orphan.”
“I think-”
“I hate this!”
“- I’ve freed you, Doctor.”

Paints wept down his walls. It sunk a hundred needles into all parts of his mind. His throat constricted. The Doctor’s coffin was gone.
“We all need this, Doctor.”
Silence wound between the colours.
“Yes. I think so too,” the Doctor said.
She smiled. He wobbled over to a bench. The Subject poised a paint dredged finger above a blank tile.
“It’s not finished. But you can have the last piece.”
The Doctor stopped.“You’d like me to finish your painting, my dear?”
“Yes.”
Fingers worked without consent. All the colours in the universe sprayed on the wall. The Doctor leant over. Her hands bled purples and greens. “You can finish all this.”
“Yes.”

The Doctor raised a loaded needle. Liquid moved with sick lethargy, bloated with evil. He focused his weapon. Its tip threw a long, thin shadow across the Subject’s back. “Yes, I can.”

Bereft by Hajirah Abuuh

As a child my wish was always to be out there and to feel free by not being afraid of anyone. My name is Ahmed, 13 years old and I live in Afghanistan. As a child I grew up in a country where the Taliban ruled and we had no choice but to listen to them. Every day I had the same routine, the same path and there was no future or choice. My dad died when I was 3 years old because he stood up for our country. All he did was take a group to the government and said “We want freedom!” and when the Taliban heard it they took him and we never heard of him again. My uncle told us that he buried him in a faraway place instead of being burnt by the Taliban.

My sister is like my dad; she always tries to stand up for herself but has no idea what she is putting herself into. We are a family of four, me being the only boy. Life is hard. My mum always warns us and tells us to think before we say or do anything. One day the Taliban decided to make a law that women and girls should not be allowed out of the house unless there is a man with them. As a result I am the man even though I am only 13 years old. I really hated that fact because from then on I wouldn’t be doing anything I wanted. I had to be with them and I had to do everything that was needed outside. This might be a great thing for some men, being the man of the house but for me I believe ladies could be whatever they wanted.

One day my mum said to me “I want to get out of Afghanistan as soon as possible; I’ve had enough of these Taliban telling us what is right and wrong. Since my husband died all the happiness went out of this house. Because of him we have no life. You are too young to be the man of the house!” Well, I knew my mum was saying the right thing but at the same time you need to be stronger than that as a mother. I kept quiet and looked down just to show I respected her words.

It was hell living at home because the food was running out and I didn’t know where to get money for everything so I decided to work and give up on my schooling. My uncle found me a job cleaning people’s shoes. Let’s just say the worst job ever! People had no respect for me because of the kind of job I had but you know this is part of life so I needed to be patient.

One day white British people came to my area and I heard them telling each other they were lost. The father said “We’ll we need to find a solution because I don’t want to be stuck in this place”. The mother said “Let’s ask that boy who is cleaning the shoes”. The father just laughed and said “So out of all these people you picked the shoe cleaner who doesn’t even know how to read!” The woman ignored her husband and she came to me, with a smile. She said “Hello, young boy I don’t know if you will understand me but I really need help”. I looked at her and quickly replied “Hi, what do you need help with?” She was very happy to know that I spoke English so she called the others. When they all came, their young son said “Mum, do you really think this guy could help us?” The mother looked at him with anger and smiled at me.

The family explained to me how this person they’d given money to, to be their guide, had left them in the middle of the shops. The first thing that came to my mind was to take them to the embassy, so I did. The mother couldn’t stop thanking me so she gave me money. I really didn’t want to accept it because all I did was help them to get out of my country but the woman, who is named Anna, begged me.

I came back home very happily. I knocked on the door so hard but I didn’t hear footsteps coming. I kept knocking. I waited for 30 minutes but no answer. I just kicked the door and got into the house. When I walked into the house all I saw were broken glass and a little baby crying, I knew everything wasn’t fine so I just picked the baby up. I waited for anyone to come but it looked like no one was coming so I decided to check up on my neighbours.

When I knocked a strange guy opened the door. Without me saying a word he said “I know you are looking for your family but you know there is no hope for that because the Taliban changed that a long time ago”. I started to cry inside my heart and just walked off without saying a word to him. I was so sad that I hadn’t been there for my family when they needed me the most and now I was left here stuck with a baby, a baby, who I had no idea where she was from. This time I started to cry loudly knowing that I was alone.

Days passed by and I hadn’t received any messages about my family. Every day I stayed by this little girl because I was afraid if I left her, she might be taken as well. She became more than a friend to me because of her constant company. Even though she was young, she sometimes made me feel happy just by being there. This time life had became harder. The food was almost gone and I really didn’t want to go out. I thought deeply about it and told myself that if I stay here, this little baby and I will die together just because of hunger. This didn't sound right, so I took her with me and left.

When I got outside, everything looked dirty and empty. People looked distant. Their hearts were being ruled by the Taliban. I saw the Taliban walking towards me so I just started to go back but then it was too late. They came up to me and one of them said “Hey little boy, why are you out with this baby?” I didn't bother acting smart so I answered “This baby is my sister and I am out to search for food .No one’s home to look after her!” They looked at each other and laughed. Then one of them replied “Wow, didn't know we had brave kids like that and a boy who could become a girl so fast!!” I knew that you should never mess around with them but I didn’t know how to answer so I just kept quiet and looked down as my mother taught me.

More Taliban kept coming and kept talking to me but I did the same thing which was ignoring them. After 30 minutes of standing an angry Taliban guy came and said “What are you all doing here? And why is this boy with a girl outside?” This time I knew it was a bad idea to ignore so I answered “I am out here because we need food and there is no one home to take care of my sister”. With anger the guy replied “I don’t care if you die, I don’t want to see a baby out here and you are a man so we need you to join us” I quickly said with a loud voice “No my sister needs me, you guys made my family go away and I am not interested in leaving my sister out in the street so I am not going to join you!” He came to me and slapped my face with his big hand. That slap felt like I was hit by a metal bar and my nose started to bleed. I could see tears coming from the baby and me but I just stayed strong. One of them said “Let’s leave this boy alone. He can fend for himself.” I believed that the guy was right and I didn’t know how to thank him so I just smiled at him. I really wanted to keep the baby close to me and finally I felt free to walk away. I trudged on for another hour until I saw an old friend of my father’s climbing on to a truck. Out of relief I ran to him thinking he might have some answers. He urgently cried out “Get on the truck quickly, we’re going to safety.” Confused, I still obeyed him with the word safety ringing in my ears.

Days went by and it came to a stage that I couldn’t feel my body. I tried my best to make her comfortable but then I could see her getting sick and coughing. I wasn’t sure if this baby would survive because of hunger and lack of sleep. She always looked at me and smiled even though she was in a lot of pain. I wasn’t sure how old she was but it looked like she was a lot smarter than her age. Finally we arrived and the look of the camp! It didn’t look like a comfortable place at all but I was hoping that I might see my family. There were many of us and people were pushing each other just to get in. A lady came to me and said “Give me the baby so I can take care of her” All I said was “No, I am looking for my family. Help me find them because she is my baby sister and I don’t want to lose her.” The lady was nice because she accepted what I said and started to look for them. I told her “Please go to the central point and read the names because this camp is big and hard to find people”. She went and did as I said. For the first time, someone listened without asking me questions and I felt good about her.

She came back after hours and said “Well, I found their names which means they are here but I don’t know where they really are.” I was happy to hear that they were around but in this big camp how would I ever find them? That question had been in my mind for days. The baby and I were out in the camp and I was teaching her to walk. I suddenly heard my name from the back and when I turned I saw my mum and little sister coming towards me. I ran and hugged them and we all shed many tears. After minutes I asked my mother “Mum, why did you leave me? You left me without telling me, even without information about where you’d gone!” She replied “I am sorry but I really couldn’t take it anymore and I thought coming here would be better for us. I knew you would be fine by yourself”. With anger I said “So leaving me in a dangerous place all by myself with no explanation is your way of caring for me”. She replied “My dear son, I am so sorry but you can’t imagine what an immense relief it is to see you alive and well here with me again and who is this?” I said “She is someone who I couldn’t leave behind to die and now I need your help to care for her as she has no family. Mysteriously I found her in our house when you disappeared. Will you make her one of our family?”
After long moments of thought, her face broke into a smile. Her pride in me was unstoppable. She had to say yes even though another mouth to feed was an enormous problem. Life in this camp was precarious and hard. “Have you got a name for her?” my mother asked. “No” I whispered. “Then let’s call her Sabrin.” I loved this name because I knew it meant patience.

A sudden realisation made me wonder where Nooria was, so after a long pause I asked “Mum, is Nooria on an errand? Where is she?” My mother also paused and hung her head saying “I did send her on an errand months ago and she has been missing ever since. I am afraid her cheeky personality got her into trouble. I have no idea what happened to her and I am still waiting for her.”

I knew then that my search for Nooria had begun.

---

2012 Winners

Glass and porcelain by Alice Beecham

Mr George Jones wiped rain off his glasses and stepped through his front door. He hung his post bag and coat on a hook, and walked into the living room.

The living room carpet was old, and dust erupted from under each footstep. Although the rest of the house was quite warm, Mr Jones was always shivering when he was in this particular room. He told himself it was caused by a hole in a wall somewhere, or inadequate insulation, but that could not explain the prickling on the back of his neck, and the way his stomach fluttered.

I knew the real source of his unease: the feeling of being watched. Each wall was lined with little figures. Some played instruments, others stood in pairs gossiping, or slouching in little wooden chairs. Although each had its own position, costume and props, there was one feature that they all shared. Those empty glass eyes stared down at George, severe and unforgiving. Eyes that followed him as he passed through the room, no matter which way their heads were turned. Always watching. His wife had found their turned up noses and rosy cheeks charming. Their flaking glaze and thinning hair added character and showed their age, she had said, and their little fingers were just darling.

Mr Jones shook his head. He remembered buying her very first china doll. The doll had been sitting in a shop window in the main street. The window frame was rotting, paint peeling and glass cracked, but the doll had been pristine.
Can we buy her, George? Please? Look at her, just sitting there. So alone. Can you see the sadness in her eyes George?
I can see something in her eyes, but I think that’s just our reflection.
When they’d bought the house, their minds had been alight with images of kids scampering up the wide stairs, playing on the lawn, painting at the kitchen bench. This was a house for a family, a house to be lived in, and Mr Jones was alone. Maybe he should have taken another week, like his boss had suggested.

Despite his rain coat, wind and water had gotten to him. A cup of tea, George decided, was exactly what he needed right now. Mr Jones knocked a doll from its shelf. He tried to catch it, but the doll glanced off his outstretched arm, and into the next room. Porcelain doll met porcelain tile with a satisfying crunch.

I watched his frown replaced with a smile as he watched her destruction. Now lying face down on the floor, the doll was shattered. Her body was unharmed, but even from above George could see that she would be irreparable. One glass eye rolled across the floor, bounced off skirting and slowed to a halt. He was sure her eye was showing the sorrow that Mary had suggested all those years ago.

George creaked to his knees and began gathering up pieces of doll that had scattered. The doll’s hands had suffered immensely, but her face was worse. That delicate, upturned nose was crushed inwards, like an egg that one had not hit hard enough to crack. As he turned her over, pieces crumbled into the hollow cavity behind her face. One of the doll’s cheeks had been left on the tile when he picked her up, and her chin was lying by the stove, still in once piece.

As he walked to the bin, George turned the pieces of doll’s face in his hands. He discarded the doll and closed his fingers over the remaining shards. After a moment he let his hand fall open, and face followed body into the trash. He slipped the smooth glass ball into his pocket.

Day turned to night, in the usual manner, and Mr Jones took the same route to bed that he always had. He filled his hot water bottle, hastened across the living room, glanced over one shoulder, headed towards the stairs. Every night the same, in recent weeks. This glance was instinctive, uncontrollable, a child glancing at their wardrobe once they’re tucked safely under covers. The glance says, ‘I’m out of reach,’ to any monsters in closets, ‘but I’m just double checking.’

The sound of George’s footsteps paused as he turned off the light in the hall. As he continued on, up the stairs, the living room came to life.
George, four steps from the landing, froze as he heard a noise behind him. He turned and peered into the shadows at the foot of the stairs. Nothing. He didn’t move. George stood on that step for over a minute. Waiting. Breathing. He told himself not to be an idiot. He knew there was nothing down there. I knew otherwise. If this was a break-in, he reasoned, burglars would have made more noise, surely. There was nothing else it could be. No plausible possibilities.

Mr Jones felt the familiar prickling on the back of his neck. In the shadows of his mind, the picture of the broken doll flashed. That eye, rolling across the floor towards him. His hand brushed against his pocket.

George shook his head, stood up straight. His vice-like grip on his water bottle was the only thing that told me he hadn’t fully convinced himself that he’d imagined the sound. He adjusted his glasses and turned to take the last few steps.
As Mr Jones turned towards his room, she made her move.

The doll was now lying face down on the carpet before him: the pose of all discarded toys. Fear and confusion danced in Mr Jones’s eyes. He stretched out a hand and lifted the lifeless doll. George ran his thumb over one set of porcelain knuckles. Cracks were evident, uneven under his soft skin. Both of her hands, though tremendously scarred, were whole. George’s tongue was dry. His mouth tasted sour.
Silence. A rasping breath. Mr Jones turned the doll over.

The chunks that had fallen from her face had been reassembled more cleanly than those of her hands, the seams barely visible. Chin and cheek came together as if they had never been separated. The doll’s nose, pointed once more, showed little evidence of its reconstruction; the evenly spaced cracking of the glaze resembled the crazing of aged, finely crafted pottery. Her lips were redder than he remembered.

My sister opened her eyes, and looked straight at Mr Jones. He stared. One eye revealed a cavity where a glassy bead had once rested, and should have been returned to, had it not been for Mr Jones. The other socket still held its eye, and instead of sorrow, rage was blazing behind it.
All this in a moment, as Mr Jones stood at the top of the stairs, one foot still raised. As the doll opened her eyes, George flailed, trying to discard her once more. She clung to his withered hand, razor nails finding purchase between the folds of his skin. In the shadows, the collection waited. George’s foot finally completed its step, as he lowered it to the ground, stumbling backwards.
Oops.
Mr Jones thudded to the foot of the stairs, and we were upon him.

Knot by Bram Rider-Hays

Underskirts grew heavier. Black dress pulled at her hips.
‘Looks grey. Maybe a dusk shower, if we’re lucky.’
‘It least people will think its droplets. Hopefully then they’ll stop asking.’
‘Are you-’
‘Don’t. It was going so well, don’t ruin it.’
Both women continued towards the township. Fresh mounds on the hillside. ‘There’s so many lately. The path to the cathedral is almost...lost.’
Silence.
‘You have just lost your mother girl. If anyone should have faith in God...’
‘Faith? Belief is no shield against blood thirsty mouths-’
Abigail’s hand rose. A fierce sting burnt in a fresh welt.
‘She obviously didn’t have faith.’
A knot gripped Natasha’s throat.

*

Coarse linen wrapped around her feet as fur strands climbed up thighs. Flames licked the blackened stone as light danced in her eyes. A familiar face graced into the room. ‘Natasha, you’re late for your uncle’s address at the meeting.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Town hall, seven o’clock. You’re not even dressed.’
‘Can’t I stay home? Or least arrive like this?’
‘Child, you cannot.’
‘But Nanny!’
Pause. Natasha pulled herself off the pelt and sauntered towards her bedpost, Nanny ready with corset lace.

*

‘Two days ago, my own sister succumbed to the vermin that run wild in our streets. Pain. It is time to offer a proposal to you that will eliminate the beasts that terrorise our township. I have word from the capital that the church has sent blessings from the city. They are with us.’
‘Blessings will do nothing!’
‘Natasha, my child, you know not of what you speak.’
‘I know blessings didn’t save mother becoming a feeble invalid.’
Abigail found her feet, ‘she spoke of such contempt early this evening, walking through our Lord’s House.’
Whisperings flooded the hall, hardwood alive with echoes of gossip and theories.
‘Shut up all of you. Your rumours and scandals just fanciful twaddle that shows you don’t care. Pathetic. You’re unable to open your eyes to the truth. I am just like you, but even I can see the capital has no care for us. Blessings... how are meant to protect our loved ones with words?’
‘Natasha.’ Whimsical mutterings drowned in his anger. ‘Silence girl.’
‘How can’t you see?’
He stepped down, heavy footfalls racing towards her. Beard tip tickled at her chin as he spoke, embarrassed in front of judgemental eyes. ‘Speak only when spoken to, has my sister failed in teaching you everything? If so, her passing won’t be the tragedy as with all women, mothers.’
‘The only tragedy that exists in this room is you.’

*

Bed cushions cradled Natasha, fine woven fabric wrapped tight. Dark blotches peppered head to toe; deep red crusts atop hard lumps. Moonlight twirled across the ceiling, long shadows hiding her face in the looking glass. Tears. Her hand floated over her side table, gliding over familiar items. One. Her best friend. Found. With no second thought. She knew.

*
Morning light washed over her. Nanny tied the curtains back, humming a memory while at work. She turned, eyes drawn to scabby brown lines. Frown. Waddle over to her side. Her round bustle provided further cushion, ‘Darling, why? You bleed already... why make yourself hurt anymore.’
Natasha flinched in dream.
Nanny rose and drifted out of the room, taking dirty clothing as she passed.

*

‘May I help you?’ Natasha said.
‘What’s it like to have little faith wears the marks of the betrayer.’
‘Bruises?’
‘Cuts from the hand of the Gods, it be their warning.’
She seemed to be convinced, Natasha’s eyes drop down. Could she be right?
‘You know, child. You’re not long for this world with marks like that.’
Natasha’s eyes didn’t move.

*

Her lids rubbed against pupils. That voice rung in her head. She ran in her dreams, across cloudy fields. It was omniscient. Demonic.
‘Ease the pain with a quiet mutter; rock on your heels. Forward. Back. Soon this becomes a habit, though it hidden is from outside eyes, never to know. A prisoner in what others call home.
Lies to herself. A world oblivious.
Flight of a madman is the plight of society.
Soon it ruptures. Cry out. Grasps at the others. Then greeted. Dagger meets spine. Crumpled. Weak soul, crushed under the blow, her life finally torn along the perforated tiles.’
Feet pounded on. Slumber. No haven for her broken mind.

*

Fireplace roared with life. Nanny perched, wool knit chafed between hands. Natasha gazed at an inked page, knowledge lost between eye and article. ‘Nanny?’
She hummed in welcome.
‘I hear this voice, every time I close my eyes, it speaks. Words burrow into my soul, like a grave digger.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘A voice... strong – ‘to the side, not the side and yet in between’?’
Hands froze; fell into her lap, ‘such nonsense.’
‘That is all I can remember from what I hear yet it is spoken to me every night. I want it to end.’
‘Child,’ a pause, uncharacteristic for her, a click in her brain, ‘you’re a worry.’

*

Natasha swam in bed sheets. Flailing with such force and noise that it could wake the dead. Nanny crouched outside her door, murmurs to the light for protection flowed from her. She knew what was to come that night. A witness to the act too many times.
Natasha jolted upright, not awake or asleep. Her legs fell over bedside and plucked her from covers. Footsteps were slow, dead. Soles catching edges of floor . Her hands found brass knobs, her place of concealment. A draw opened. Fingers dived for the rope loop, determined. Afraid. She pulled it out of hiding. Ring. Knot. Tail.
Nanny crouched outside. Weeping.
Rope fibres tickled Natasha’s neck. A creaking strut dangled her body. Dawn rays casted droplets onto her skin. Feathery clouds hung against the horizon as pinpricks of silver glittered in fading darkness.
Nanny’s eyes dropped. She was lost.

Where it began by Jo Whitchurch

"Did you know it would end this way?"
"No" The answer was flat, cold. No emotions showed in his now hopeless voice.
A sigh sounded, followed by the clicking of a tongue against teeth.
"Hurry up already. Before they come back." A third voice spoke, a sneer apparent in their tone.
"The Winters? Nah, they've already been through." The first voice purred, deceptively confident.
The staccato sound of steel click clacking against frosty cobbles was heard and, with almost no sound- and certainly no hesitation, the group of cloaked people scattered into the darkness.
The man with the flat voice made no attempt to flee. He had created these monsters, and now, he would pay the price for his mistake.
The click clack grew to a sharp, rapid cracking as the creature noticed him, and a chill fog rose from the ground, as the creature drew closer, proof that even places the creatures had already passed were not safe.
The man, knowing that he was about to die, found that he was thinking about his frail eight year old, with her many allergies. She was the sole reason he'd created the first of the horse-like monsters that charged towards him.

The man, Joseph Wyfold II by name, had been a professor of anatomy at a local university. But on the side, he was an inventor, and doting father. His daughter, Claire, was often in poor health, and allergic to many things. One of these allergies included horsehair, much to the dismay of the girl.
But her father had an idea. If she couldn't have a real horse, he would build her one, a horse powered by clockwork and steam, one that could allow even her fragile form to ride and adapt to her style as she developed.
By the time the basic design was finished, six months had passed. It would be another year and a half before the prototype was complete, with a hide of polished brass, and an internal collection of gears and widgets. Its joints were hinged, allowing for a semblance of fluid movement.
But there were problems with the power source. The clockwork wound down too fast. He needed a stronger source than steam.
Then Joseph Wyfold II stumbled upon a travelling merchant, who carried with him an unusual mineral, which he claimed could power anything. He gave the professor a sample, a chip of the malachite-like stone, barely the size of a child's fingernail. It was cold to the touch, colder even than a bitter winter's night.
He took it home, and, ever so sceptically, placed it against the cold, hard and lifeless skin of the horse. Its glass eyes gained a dim colourless glow. Joseph could hear the clockwork running, and the horse snorted steam almost immediately. He removed the chip, not noticing that the brass had turned silver and was smoking slightly.
For a few minutes, the clockwork creature ran smoothly, trotting on the spot. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped, the clockwork winding down instantly.

Joseph returned to the merchant, and this time bought a piece of the stone, this one the size of a man's clenched fist. This time he chose not to place it on the exterior, but instead opened the clockwork equine's chest, and placed the cold stone where the heart's cavity. When he closed the panel, the clockwork began to whir and click, and the creature's eyes glowed, at first a soft green, but then a harsh crimson.
The horse made a sound, and its steel hooves struck the floor of Joseph's workshop, cracking the floorboards with the sheer force of its steps. Silver began to spread from its torso, and the previously exposed hinges were covered in a shimmering silver skin. Even as this occurred, the horse continued its stamping, and frost began to form where its hooves struck. It no longer moved as if it were made of brass and an iron frame. Now, the metal flexed like skin, muscles that didn't previously exist rippling beneath the now flesh like exterior.

It was achingly beautiful, but something seemed horribly wrong. Then it turned, metal skeleton creaking. The red glow of its eyes had changed, becoming a fiery violet.
Then, he heard a sound he dreaded, especially at this point. Claire's hesitant steps and a choking cough. Then the workshop door creaked open and he heard an awed gasp.
"Claire, go back to bed. I'll be there in a minute to read to you." Joseph spoke gruffly, a desperate attempt to protect his daughter.
But Claire just moved forward, hypnotised by the metallic monstrosity. A cloud of fog formed from its nostrils, as the child drew closer. She was shivering, but only from the chill that radiated from the beast.
She reached out, and the silver equine made a sound that could have been a snort, lowering itself, as if inviting the child to climb on. Joseph reached out to grab her shoulder, but she simply shrugged his hand away.
She was so vulnerable, dressed in only a nightdress, and her latest illness had transformed her into a wraith of her former self. Or perhaps it was her proximity to the horse that made her seem so insubstantial, as if she were barely there.
Joseph couldn't bring himself to believe what happened next. The creature's metal skin shimmered, and odd bumps began to form, becoming a thin ladder, which Claire began to climb haltingly. Joseph cried out, a strangled sound, trying to make his daughter realise what she was doing. But she didn't hear, and the equine made an amused sound.
When she was perched on the beast's broad back it stood, and with a satisfied sound, reared, and kicked open the external door of the workshop, breaking it to kindling with minimal effort. And then it fled the scene, carrying Claire Wyfold away, perhaps forever.

The Original had shown an ability, which would seal the city's fate. Anything bearing a horse's shape, be it statue or flesh and blood, would become what the local residents had called Winters, named such for the deathly chill that accompanied them wherever they travelled. Within a few small weeks, every horse in the city had been converted. But there was one major distinguishing feature between them. Only the original Winter had violet eyes. The others all had eyes of luminous crimson.

If Joseph Wyfold had one regret about the creatures, it was that the first was too close in form to a real horse. If he hadn't used his knowledge of anatomy so well, perhaps the chill never would have spread. The last time a monster like this had been unleashed on the city, a scientist had been attempting to find out about his primordial, beast like nature. It had been three years before that particular issue had been resolved, and the city still spoke of it in hushed tones.

But none of Wyfold's musings or regrets would change what he had done. He did not know why the monster had taken his daughter, and now, he believed he never would.
He watched the Winter that was charging towards him, spreading his arms in surrender to his fate. His outstretched fingers brushed against cold metal, as the former horse ran right past him.
A voice cried out in agony, somewhere behind Joseph. But he didn't turn to look. He was too busy trying to understand why the beast had let him go. Why it hadn't killed him.

---

2011 Winners

Nobody by Courtney Ross

"Welcome,” he said.
He never visited this period in the Earth’s history. No-one ever needed him. There was no more disease – hadn’t been since the 78th century, when they’d found a bug that cured everything. Lengthened your lifespan too, but medicine had already advanced them to a life span of several centuries, what was a few more?
More importantly though, there was no reason to dream anymore. No-one was needed to save the day – what needed saving anyway? Life was perfect, at least as far as they were concerned. Food was plenty, they all lived to the same standards; not that anyone really had an opinion about anything anymore.
“We need your help,” I began. “I speak to you – no, I plead with you, to beg for your help on behalf of all the humans on earth. But more importantly, I speak to you as your last living descendant."
”“Oh yes, because everything is so wrong in this perfect corner of the world.”
He moved to close the door, limiting the view of the dusty boxes that piled high around the house.
I blocked it with my foot. “We need your help.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You seem very sure, considering it was your grandfather who laughed and said I would never be needed again.”
I bowed my head slightly in acquiescence. “He was wrong. It’s really bad out there, and I don’t think that anyone realises.”“
"Not my problem,” he replied. “That was made clear long ago.”
He closed the door.
“They’re planning an uprising, you know.”
He opened the door and looked at me with disgust. “They should. Maybe then you’ll be reminded of what it means to be human.”
I glared in response. “They’ve got help. We also think that some of our own have turned traitor, allowing them to infiltrate everything. They’ll attack everything at once, and we won’t be able to withstand it.”“
"And this changes everything because…”“
"At one point, you’d have done anything to help us and change our fate.”“
"Let’s not forget who betrayed who here.”
Hurt flashed across my face. “You’re worshipped here, you know; as the one who put this glorious two tiered system in place.”“
"And look what it’s become. I gave the people power because I thought they would be better equipped to handle it with compassion, because they truly desired to be equals. I didn’t argue when those with greater influence began to be promoted or given better equipment over others, because I figured that they deserved it more, and would help to lead you into a brighter future. Now it’s just about what family you come from.”“
"Everyone is happy, though. There may be two levels, but everyone is happy, working to keep standards the same.”“
"The standards are the same? The people on the lower level are worked to death, working in factories and plants, creating silly trinkets for the higher level. The only thing the higher level ever does for the lower level is keep manufacturing faster!”
I looked at him sadly. “This system works. For everyone, no matter what level they are associated with. You were a hero to us because of it.”“
"In another time, I still am." He seemed bitter. “You don’t want a hero. You want someone to do the work for you."
I seethed at that remark. “You got us into this. This is your fault! You left us, with nothing! You believed him, and you knew what he was like, at his worst!”“
And that is exactly why I left. This has to happen.”
"You’ve been involved in just about everything else! Why not this as well? Help us!”
“I am involved, aren’t I? I’m here, I’m talking to you.”
“That’s not what I meant. You could save us from suffering.”
“Like you’ve made so many others suffer? Like you will make millions of others suffer if I intervene?”
“This system works,” I snapped. “It’s worked for the last 100 years.”
He laughed at my response. “And would you like to know how long the next system will last?”
Disappointment clouded my face. “You ask too much of us.”
His gaze intensified on me. ‘Would you give up a life in the shadows for a moment in the sun?”
“I spend my lifetime in the sun,” I retorted.
“No,” he smiled sadly. “You are but a shadow of what humans once were. Caring, compassion, are values you no longer understand.”
“We are compassionate! I’m trying to save our society!”
He shoved me against the wall. “Are you? Are you really? Or are you just trying to save your own skin?”
I trembled; sweat dripping down my neck as my eyes widened at his sudden change in demeanour. “We’re scared. We all are. Save us. Be our hero again.”
He released me, and turned his back to me. “You forgot to ask if I’d picked a side already in this war.”
I froze. “No. You couldn’t. You’ve stood by my family for hundreds of years!”
“One often feels obliged to family, it is true, but what happens when one has family on both sides of the war?”
I ignored his last statement. “I am family. We’ve carried your name for centuries, as we will forever more. No-one else can compare.”“
"But if your line was not to continue. Who would carry my name then?”
His words began to sink in. I could feel panic threaten to overwhelm me. “No. Please. Save me.”
“Please?” He asked, almost puzzled by my words. “And do you remember when that little girl said please to you?”
I swallowed, feeling sick to my stomach. “I ignored her,” I began honestly. “But – ”
“Do you know who she’ll be? Who she is?”
I began to shake my head, tears welling in my eyes. I covered my ears desperately. His eyes stared through me, as if I was a ghost, instead of a corporeal form in front of him. He continued, his voice rising loudly.
“She is to be the saviour. She is the bringer of light and one thousand years of glory. She will be remembered for thousands of years to come, as the one who encouraged intelligence and punished the selfish. But do you know who she is?”
“But she’s just a girl! She can’t be much more than fifteen! Nothing comparable to the likes of me! We will crush her!” Rage threatened to consume me as my vision blurred.
“But do you know who she is?”
I was grinding my teeth in an effort to try and keep my patience. “Who?”
He lent in close and whispered in my ear, so quiet I could barely hear it. Completely unprepared for the truth, his words shocked me.
“No! Liar! She is nobody!” I screamed.
That sad smile covered his face again. “And so nobody shall be your downfall.”

Casualty of war by Victoria Beecham

I am a casualty of war
A long forgotten soldier
Rotting awayIn the mud that is
No man's land

Over me
Both sides fight
But there are no bombs
Tearing apart houses
And scattering the burning contents
As far as the eye can see

There are no bullets
Ripping through the calloused flesh
Of the opposition
Spraying blood and gore
As far as the eye can see

There is no mustard gas
Fogging up the lenses
On the soldiers masks
Suffocating
As far as the eye can see

There are no troops
There is no bloodshed
And there is no death
This is a war of words

But this war is tearing me apart
Slashing me down the middle
Because I can’t choose a side

These words are ripping through me
Destroying my fragile heart
Because I know the fault is mine

The pressure is suffocating me
Smothering my dreams
Because now there is no point

And as the war rages
Brick by brickI build myself a bomb shelter
And prepare for the day
When I will lock myself in
Away from the words
And the pressure
Until the war is over

Short story response to A Streetcar named Desire by Aaron Zegelin

For the expanse of my adult years I worked at the McLean Psychiatric Hospital in Massachusetts, my services encompassing nearly four decades from when I first set foot into the administrative block in the winter of 1932. Though my employment in the newly completed institution did have many advantages for me, from the enviable wages to the convenient locality, it was another merit entirely that committed me there for so great a period of time. This merit was in the genuine and unparalleled uniquity of the frayed, fizzled or outright flown minds of the facility’s tenants, and is that which urged me to stay put. Although the nature of my work as an orderly first hit me as tedious and unstimulating, I quickly developed a fascination for the oddness of mental process and the other peculiarities of those diagnosed ‘mentally insane’ or ‘deficient’. Whereas my previous office work in immigration lent me no greater social interaction than that which is struck between cubicle weathermen who discuss rain and cloud in passing conversation, the air in the asylum was never so stagnant. It was nearly always abuzz with some atypical discourse which never failed to entrance me. Being a quiet man as I am, who prefers to listen rather than partake in dialogue, the occupants of the hospital thus offered me a wealth of amusement and food for thought while I went about my duties there.

Many of these people I remember to this day, for instance Mr Tobias McMurphy, a psychoneurotic whose obsessively organized nature gave him an elephantine memory – whensoever he visited my booth for medication I would have him recite for me the news headlines of papers issued years ago, an act he could perform flawlessly every time -- and I always checked. However, while McMurphy was certainly an interesting man and a pleasant acquaintance over the months of his treatment, cases like his were not the ones that provoked my aforementioned fascination. The first person to truly impress me in that way was Mr Walt Stark, a man whose story shifted my view on the world significantly.

Walt was delivered to us in a seemingly catatonic state on March 4th, a date which I remember as I recall that I missed the inauguration of President Roosevelt to prepare a room for him. He was committed on decision of the Civil Court after a drunken bustle with the law in a nearby Somerville bar, one which left an officer with a bruised cheek and Walt with a few broken bones. I never learned the grounds of the court’s insanity ruling, but my very first ‘conversation’ with him made it clear to me that the sentence was appropriate; I was opening the blinds in his room three days after his arrival when he spoke what were, to my knowledge, his first words inside the building. “How am I looking?”, he simply asked me, like an insecure man in a tight suit might do. I was surprised to hear him talk at all, most people I’d known who’d refused to speak for three days straight usually persisted for the remainder of their stay. “Like you fell from Everest”, was my response, and an appropriate one if I were to judge by the sheer volume of bandage and plaster wrapped around him. Then he asked me for my name, in return giving me his own, and in that moment I figured something was amiss about the man. “Edward Stark, or Ned, if it’s preferable to you”, he said.

Sure enough, the pseudonym that Walt had adopted was not randomly chosen; in my experience, people who had decided to mask their real names always did so with one that had some underlying sentiment to it. Going over Walt’s files I spotted the name he gave me under his list of kin, that of one Edward Ernest Stark – deceased. Curious though I was, I knew better than to approach the man for the reason why he’d taken on his dead brother’s name, instead opting to wait and ask my supervisor and friend, Thomas Mosher, who often sat in for the evaluation procedures of new patients. He informed me later that the real ‘Ned’ Stark was a somewhat famed man within the boxing community, a long-running middleweight champion who recently died no more than two feet away from Walt, who had been driving his brother interstate for a tournament match when their vehicle lost traction and collided with an old oak stump alongside the road.

It was assumed by the doctors at McLean that some mental susceptibility of Walt’s paired with his immeasurable guilt had combined to profoundly warp his mind following his tragedy, Thom told me. Most likely as some sort of coping mechanism, Walt had not only adopted his brother’s name, but also every facet of his character, and lived as if the character of Walt was that which perished in the crash. ‘Schizoid Dissociative Identity Disorder’ is what they stamped on the front page of his file, and the hospital would eventually come to specialize in it and its differential forms.

Sometime later came the first day I saw Walt stagger himself out of his room on crutches and into the lounge, a strange confidence about him for a man in his circumstances. He joined the other patients and mingled immediately and fluidly, as if rehearsed. He proudly showed off a polished gold medallion printed with a large boxing glove surrounded with a Latin phrase, ‘pulchra somnia’. He told the others of his great triumphs and the trials encountered in earning it, and revelled in the praises of his audience. His performances became a common occurrence, and Walt, or Ned, as he became known, had soon replaced the board games and radio as a means of entertainment for the patients. Even staff members, myself included, stopped by now and again to listen to his seamlessly rewoven retellings of his brother’s life, and when that material dried up, Walt often crafted equally detailed fabrications. However, this was the pleasant side of things, the side that Walt deliberately presented to shield himself from reality, the reality that somewhere deep within himself he fully realized, but could not for a moment endure.

At first the great charade put on by Walt confounded me. That one would loathe the true shape of things and be so withdrawn into misery that they would ultimately find it better to disconnect altogether and wear fantasy as a sheath to cover where reality had wounded them. In the years I’ve had to ponder Walt’s case and those like it, though, I’ve come to realize that all he had done was take to its extreme the sort of escapism that almost the whole world subjects itself to, whether it is through alcoholism, narcotics or the everyday ‘everything will be okay’ self-delusions. The damages and grievances he had to disillusion himself from were simply more deeply penetrating than most.

For five months the psychiatrists at McLean tried to puzzle Walt out, but before their assembly he found no use for his armour and simply shed it, giving them nothing to analyse and turning mute. Thom reported that the shrinks had decided there was no action they could take to ‘fix’ Walt. His insanity was self-inflicted purely as a force of will, a mechanism he consciously used to dissipate his guilt by doping himself in crowds of admirers, his own little opiate. It was decided that Walt would be an indefinite resident of the hospital until such a time that some satisfactory solution could be found.

For another few months did Walt thus remain in McLean, routinely putting on his act for the new patients and whatever visitors cared to listen, and he did so without incident until Thom retired and was replaced by Paul Ludd, who I personally never saw eye-to-eye with and thought of as far too unsympathetic a man to be working in such a place. As I learned from his loud ranting, Paul was a devout enthusiast of many sports, chief among which were the more primal and brutish ones, boxing included. The very first time that Paul overheard one of Walt’s tales he could not help himself from poking holes in Walt’s shield, as if he had something to prove from besting an insane man’s knowledge of the sport. It became common for Paul to harass Walt in this manner, and it is my belief that in this way Paul was enacting his own sort of fantasy, one where he was in control or in some position of respect, where in truth he was just thuggishly bullying the weaker figure.

I remember Paul’s cruelty upon Walt culminated one day following a particularly heated dispute between the two, where Paul had interjected in one of Walt’s performances before a whole family of visitors, revealing the holes in his autobiography and embarrassing him deeply. In response, Walt revealed to the same family a fact concerning Paul – his impotence, which Walt had caught wind of from a prescription slip left at the medication booth. Twenty-four hours later, the whole ward was woken by Walt’s near-inhuman howls of disdain and anguish. When I arrived at his room he had clutched in his hands Ned’s prized medallion, the article by which he legitimized his stories to strangers and found his escape, now folded and contorted horribly as if thrown beneath a train – like the train Paul used to commute to and from the hospital. The cold act of revenge was as clear as day, and though nothing could be proven, Paul was coerced into taking up a record-keeping job far away from any patients.

That was the last time I ever saw Walt, once a good friend of mine, as he was transferred to a different ward shortly after that event. Others like him came and went in the years that I remained working at McLean, and like him, their unique perspectives and conditions provided me a great deal of philosophical fuel to burn in my mind, but nobody ever gave me as jarring an insight into the nature of man as Walt, the man who lived and died twice over.

---

2010 Winners

Memory by Victoria Beecham

'Good morning Ben. My name is Doctor Jack; Inspector Keith has asked me to talk to you this morning. Is that all right? Good. We'll start slowly ok? Don't worry if you can't remember everything right away. Just try and think back.'

Memory.

I could feel it creeping towards me. Probing the walls of my consciousness and slipping through cracks I had long thought sealed. I shuddered, a subconscious urge to avoid what I knew, despite my reluctance, I needed. It was barrelling towards me, gaining on me no matter how far or fast I ran.

All alone in the moonlight.

'That's it Ben. Just lie back in the chair and close your eyes. Breathe slowly and it'll come to you. Just tell me whatever you can remember. It doesn't matter how little the detail or in what order, ok? Just relax and tell me everything.'

No, I wasn't all alone, there was someone else here. I could feel their presence and see what could, in the deepest recesses of my mind, pass for a human form. But who was it? I couldn't see them. Not really. They were moving erratically, backwards and forwards and side to side, with a face of twisted features that blurred and shifted with every movement. What was that? Dancing?

'Don't try and concentrate too hard on the things you can't remember, Ben. They will come in time. Perhaps you can tell me where you were?'

Dancing in the moonlight.

Glittering rays filtered through the tall pine trees that swayed, their needles shivering and bending in the breeze. I could feel it, that breeze, fluttering past my face and rushing over my body as I lay in the clearing on a carpet of decaying leaves. It was a strange sensation, cold, wet and sticky against my skin.

Everybody's feeling warm and...

'That's very good Ben. So you were in a forest? Is that right? And you weren't by yourself? Ok. Do you know why you were in the forest Ben? No? That's all right, perhaps then you could tell me how you were feeling?'

Heat, like a gunshot, exploded in my skull. A thick greasy sweat broke out on my forehead and on the palms of my hands as they lay at my sides. Those hands which, though they were mine, seemed almost sentient, moving, as if by themselves, against my will and wishes towards the dancing figure.

'Just relax Ben. Don't get yourself worked up. Here, have a glass of water. Just try and relax. That's better. Can you tell me about what happened before you woke up?'

If I just lay here.

Why was I on the ground? Had I fainted? Or been sleeping? Cloudy snatches of the preceding events flashed behind my eyelids. The bright blue and white of my sneakers, contrasting starkly with the dark green of the forest floor as I stumbled towards the clearing, after the scream, my torn and bloodied hands thrust out in front of me, clearing the way.

Would you lie with me?

'So you were running through the forest? Did you cut your hands on the bushes Ben? Yes? Do you know who screamed Ben? Do you know why? No? That's ok, how about how you got to the forest? Can you remember going to the forest Ben?'

A jean-clad leg, my leg, bent at the knee and the dull roar of a car motor, my smooth white hands lightly gripping the steering wheel in front of me. Beside me the figure from the forest's chest rose and fell gently and her ear twitched as a fly buzzed lazily around her head. I could see clearly her legs, pulled up to her chest, and her milky arms, folded loosely over her knees.

'Do you know who she is Ben? No? That's ok. It will come with time. Just relax and tell me more about her. Can you remember anything else about her Ben? What she looks like, what she was wearing?'

Then I saw her face.

With a blinding flash of clarity I knew who she was, everything I had not been able to see before was now clear to me. Fiery red hair that fell in waves to her shoulder blades, piercing green eyes that seemed both playful and serious, full red lips that whispered wickedly in the darkness, and pitch black eyeliner trailing down her cheeks.

Now I'm a believer.

'She sounds very pretty Ben. You sound like you were close. Was she your girlfriend? Yes? So she was the figure in the forest?'

I stood up, stumbling to keep my balance. Something was wrong. A terrible foreboding hung in the air, fogging up my vision as if someone had breathed on my glasses. The figure was too tall and her skin strangely pale. I clasped a clammy hand around her arm. The dancing stopped. I looked up at her, she was looking downwards, her head bent towards the ground at an odd angle and her copper curls fell forwards, obscuring her face and neck.

'Can you remember why you were in the forest together Ben? No? That's all right. What about her name? Can you tell me her name?'

Sweet Caroline.

I parked the car on the side of the dirt road and the dancing figure awoke with a start. 'We're here.' She pulled a big blue backpack from the boot. An Adidas backpack. She slung it casually over her shoulder. The bag seemed quite large. Much more full than it should have been. What was in it? 'All the things we need to make tonight unforgettable.'

Good times never seemed so good.

'Do you know what was in the bag Ben? You didn't pack it did you? No? Did you ever find out what was in the bag Ben?'

Caroline was pulling things out of the bag. I could see inside. A crumpled plastic water bottle, red nail polish, a folding camp stool, a pink woollen sweater, a box of tissues, a pocket knife, and a coil of plaited hemp rope. She walked towards the clearing without me. I was gathering sticks and fallen branches, firewood. I heard a rustling in the trees. I whipped my head around to see, and then I heard it, Caroline's strangled cry.

'It's ok Ben. You're doing really well. Just breathe deeply and relax. Do you want to keep going? Yes? Could you tell me what happened next? You fell over? That's how you cut your hands. And then you ran after her? Into the clearing?'

Goodbye my lover.

Caroline? Can you hear me? Caroline? Her arms hung limply by her sides, her fingertips had a strange bluish tinge. I held her wrist between my fingers, my heart stopped, I reached up to her throat and my fingers hit hemp. The wind gusted through the clearing with renewed energy and she danced towards me, her feet hitting my shins.

Goodbye my friend.

God 2.0 by Oliver Bailey

Gods of the world listen up
Your day has come
The world is your oyster
The heavenly broadcast centre is open for business
Ready to submit your thoughts and feelings to the masses

Show the public what they've been missing
Shout your cruel, biased, obviously correct opinions
Through your vulgar blog sites
Over public Facebook groups
At the bottom of well written, carefully edited news articles
Let the many sheep know the definitive truth
On issues of immigration, terrorism
Road congestion and all general policy decisions
Use a language that would consist mainly of stars
On any decent family program
But on our broadcast service is the voice of angels

Hunt the prey you so rightfully deserve
The innocent girls who have unsuspectingly flaunted their naked skin
Originally only to the closest of friends
But now found on sites with seedy names
And watched by viewers with piggy eyes
With no thoughts for feelings
Or the scream behind the picture's smile
Stupid teenagers
They are the ones at fault
And you shall reap the reward

Use your new-found power against your enemies
For you are the holy one, and they deserve to feel the heat
Send your cruel taunts
From within anonymous shadows
Attack from all angles
E-mail, Facebook, your enemies' personal website
Let others in on the action
Allow your angels and disciples to carry out your cruel bidding
Do not cease until you get your silent surrender
It is your right to do so
One wrong is certainly no good for the masses
And those with unlimited power
Can hardly be blamed for adding another

Gods of the world go forth
Pillage and exploit and plunder
Seize the freedom that is your right
But a word of caution
Before we throw the almighty power into your sweaty hands:
Use it wisely

The cranes, the cloud and the cat by Sophie Bishop

Perhaps it was my peace of mind that stopped me from noticing it. My thoughts had been in shambles all week. I felt as if I wasn't seeing anything clearly at all. All that I know is that I don't remember it being there when I was approaching the spot on the pavement. It was as if it appeared from nothing. It sat, delicate, peaceful and perfect in the very centre of the path. I stopped and looked at it for a moment, unsure of whether or not to pick it up. But something about its sudden surfacing made me feel as though it had appeared here on purpose.

So I knelt over and picked up the fragile, little paper crane.

It sat so lightly in my hand and I marvelled at the crisp folds and pale pink colouring. I wondered again how I failed to notice the colour in contrast to the dreary grey day that surrounded me. There was something lovely about the crane and it gave me a strange, warm feeling inside my chest that momentarily cloaked the anxious dread of what I knew was waiting for me at home.

I placed the crane inside the largest pocket of my coat, taking care to ensure it didn't crinkle, and continued along the footpath until I turned left into a cobbled laneway between two ivy-covered houses. There, in the very middle of the laneway, just as perfect and just as pleasant as the first, sat another little paper crane. Inquisitive, I hurried forward and picked it up. An intricate blue print on the origami paper decorated this one, and it captivated me. I placed it carefully beside the first in my large coat pocket. Now thoughtful, I continued down the lane way and turned left again out onto a quiet suburban street lined with red autumn trees.

The leaves began to drift lazily from the treetops as I walked and I breathed in deeply the dewy autumn smell when something purple caught the corner of my eye. I turned curiously just in time to see a little purple paper crane drifting quietly among the leaves down to earth. I stared at it, astonished. I looked up to into the trees, half expecting someone to be perched among the branches. But no one was there.

I was starting to feel strange. As if it were some kind of trick being played on me by some unknown source. I surveyed the street, with its cosy houses and damp lawns, but there was nobody around but the old stray grey cat, prowling carefully around the shallow puddles that stained the footpath. I had never cared much for animals. My sister Rosie had always had a soft spot for cats. She had tried one summer to convince our mother to adopt that very stray cat, but my mother, being a cautious woman, would not allow it.

I stared vacantly at the grey cat and thought about Rosie. She had always been the delicate member of the family. She was so fragile and dainty, as if she were made from paper, like the cranes that sat so precious and still in my pocket. I felt tears well in my eyes for a moment. I didn't like to think about it, but I felt so ashamed if I pushed it aside in my mind. It's only supposed to be old people that get so sick. I wiped the tears away and turned to leave.

Suddenly the cat seemed to freeze. It turned its large green eyes toward me and arched its back, hissing. Lightning struck and thunder clapped moments later. The vibrant red leaves began to shake with the wind and fall toward the earth. For a moment I was afraid. But as I watched, something amazing happened. The leaves began to writhe and fold in on themselves in the wind and by the time they touched the soggy road they would emerge as perfect paper cranes. I turned in circles and watched in amazement as more and more of them fell around me, littering the earth in their array of different colours and patterns.

It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen and I looked up to the sky. The leaves swirled and writhed and changed in perfect sequence above my head and before my eyes. My heart swelled and I swore somewhere I could hear beautiful music - the kind that felt as though it had leaked deep into your core and echoed and chimed in your bones. I spread out my arms and turned my face to the sky, allowing the cranes to brush past my face and hands as they fell to earth.

I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. When I opened them I was shocked to find that I was no longer alone. My heart stopped when I saw that standing a few metres in front of me was a man wearing a grey coat and gloves. He had brown hair and the lightest green eyes I had ever seen. When I recovered from the initial shock of him I realised that the streets were now bare of any paper cranes and all that remained were freshly fallen red autumn leaves.

It was the saddest feeling I'd ever known. I felt like the inside of my chest had been tampered with. After the paper cranes disappeared, so too did the joy and beauty brought by them. The street looked barren and grey now. Even the colourful leaves looked as if their hearts had been broken by the absence of their beautiful paper friends. I looked at the man and realised that I had tears in my eyes. He looked back at me wordlessly.

"Did you get to see them? Did you see the paper cranes?" I asked him sadly.

He stared back at me and I realised after a moment that he wasn't a man at all, but a tall boy who seemed not much older than me. He surveyed me with his bright green eyes and said "I only see things through a cloud."

His voice was deep and calm. I didn't understand how to respond because his answer seemed so strange. Then it occurred to me that my question would have seemed strange and that the entirety of this situation was strange, so I shouldn't be judgmental. "That can't be easy," I replied with a sniff. "Can you see anything?"

He nodded. "I can see you."

I frowned. "Aren't clouds made of water? How do you open your eyes if there are droplets of water in the way?"

"Not all clouds are like the ones above your head," he replied. "There are clouds of smoke... clouds of dust."

"What's your cloud made of?" I asked him, wiping the still falling tears from my eyes.

He looked at me as if he was thinking very hard. "Something blurry. Like confusion."

"Sometimes I feel like that," I told him. "It's just in my head... I think I'm just distracted."

"Mine isn't in my head," he said thoughtfully, shaking his head slowly.

I shrugged, unsure of what next to suggest. "Maybe you just need glasses?"

He smiled and I felt less cautious. "No," he sighed. "I see some things perfectly. I see you as clear as anything. I can see your curly hair and your red coat and I can see that hole in the knee of your stocking."

I looked down at the small hole and back up at him. "So what can't you see?"

"The sky," he whispered, searching above my head.

"That must be terrible," I replied.

The boy just smiled again and looked back at me.

"Can you tell me what happened just now? With the cranes?" I asked softly.

"Just a gift for you... from the cat," he told me. "Give them to Rosie."

I frowned, and then remembered the stray grey cat that Rosie had tried to adopt that summer. I looked over to the opposite footpath where it had been prowling. But it was gone. When I looked back to where the boy had been standing to ask how I could thank the cat, he was gone too. And as I searched the street, I saw the quickest flash of the grey cat with green eyes slip behind one of the houses and I smiled, because I understood.

I dug my hands deep into the big pockets of my red coat and felt the creases of two perfect paper cranes, still sitting snugly in my pocket. Suddenly ecstatic, I ran the whole way home, up the stairs, through the front door and down the corridor to where Rosie lay in her bed. Her face was gaunt and her body frail. The pink blush that usually lit her face was absent and there was no sparkle to her light blue eyes. I knelt by her bed and smiled at her.

"I have a gift for you Rose," I whispered to her softly.

She didn't say anything, but nodded her head slowly, as if it were filled with granite.

Gently I pulled out the cranes and I placed them onto her chest.

She stared at them for a moment, her hollow cheeks unmoving. But slowly and tenderly, for the first time in what seemed like centuries, Rosie smiled.

Tears welled in my eyes and began to tumble down my cheeks and I clasped her hand tightly and laughed. She opened her mouth too and together we laughed and laughed. I hadn't seen her look so radiant for so long and as we laughed I saw the colour in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes return, even if only for a moment.

2010 Runners up

Doll house by Anna Richardson

We’re not humans. I can’t see us as humans; I can’t categorize us by social group or country, nor by race or religion. I see us as dolls. Some of us are cheap souvenirs, some of us are mass produced, and some of us are one of a kind; completely unique. Some of us are porcelain, some plastic, some wooden.
I am Babushka Doll. A traditional wooden doll from Russia, tattered and dusty, with cracking paint, and cuts through my middle, each one opening up to reveal another of my inner demons. I am not something to be admired, nor anything of use, I am simply ornamental in the Doll House.

My sister is a porcelain beauty, fragile, like she could shatter at a touch, but her flawlessness is always apparent underneath her painted expression. Being younger has taught me to accept always being second best, and for the most part I have learned to ignore it, but today I choose to gape at her wide eyes and stare at her pink cheeks, I choose to gaze freely at her flawlessness. I feel that we can’t be related. I feel my outer shell crack open, the first of my demons to present themselves; jealousy.

I try linking my arm through hers but she pushes me off. I make a joke but she stares me down. I revert back to staring. It’s hard not to be hypnotized by her; she’s so perfect it’s like she can’t be real. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect body, and perfect life… Fed up by the room, or fed up by my presence, she leaves the room and wistfully, I watch her go. I used to rely on her for company, but now she can’t stand to be around me. My current shell cracks open; the next of my demons escapes; loneliness.

Barbie steps into my room, her hair styled and a warm smile permanently fixed across her face. My mother hugs me; her body is stiff but her scent is comforting. She invites me to join her downstairs but I don’t want to go. I’d rather wallow in my own self-pity than be confined to silence downstairs. Barbie nags at me to come with her, but I argue back. I yell at her to leave, and she complies, exiting my room looking affronted. The fire within me burns long after she leaves, charring the wooden shell, revealing a new doll inside me; anger.

I come downstairs, intending to head to Barbie to apologize. Stepping into the living room on my journey to the kitchen, I spy my favourite doll; hand stitched cloth, so well loved that in places the fabric has worn through and become transparent. A smile stretches across the withered yet familiar face of my Grandma. From the armchair, she beckons me toward her with gnarled old fingers. The smile grows wider across her aged face with each stride I take toward her. I feel a rush of pity for her, I know she doesn’t like loud noises and I’m sure she could hear the shouting from upstairs. She pulls me into her lap, her soft padding encasing me. I shed my angry shell, revealing a new one; love.


I go to the kitchen, Barbie standing over the oven with that same fixed smile, my porcelain sister gracefully arranging her homework on the table. The air feels heavier in this room, my ornamental presence unwanted. I open my mouth to apologize to my mother, but the words choke on my tongue; my pride makes me retreat to the living room. I exit , leaving without doing what I intended. In the armchair my grandma still sits, her eyes now closed, hands folded across her lap, peacefully asleep. I lift one of her hands toward my own, only to feel the cloth no longer warm, the stuffing in her arm gone limp. I place my ear near her mouth yet I hear no breathing. With a striking crack, my next shell opens; panic.

Barbie rushes in followed by my sister. Barbie’s permanent warm smile disappears, replaced with a sad expression and eyes that refuse to make contact with my own. My porcelain sister’s pink cheeks and wide eyes smash before me, her beauty now hidden beneath the large cracks in her fragile face. Crowded around the loved cloth doll, nobody makes the slightest sound. My own peeling paint fades further, revealing the bare wood underneath. I do not need to crack this time, my emotion is already exposed; grief.

Nothing seems to matter anymore. Every time I try to inhale, my breath catches in my throat, every time I try to eat, I find my mouth failing to work, and every time I try to look up searching for hope, I find my eyes returning to the empty spot on the normally occupied armchair. Every room in this house feels vacant; everywhere reminds me of my lost cloth doll. After many months I shed my shell of grief, but only to reveal one much worse; depression.

***
Months have come and gone, seasons have changed so much I have lost count. Gradually, I got better. The smile has come back to Barbie, but she still isn’t Barbie anymore. My porcelain sister glued the cracks back together seamlessly, but the beauty she once radiated is now gone. When we all fell down, I saw how fragile each doll was. The hard plastic of Barbie melted; the brittle china of my sister crumbled. Alone, in all my wooden glory, I stand; the last shell bursts open and rolls off. The remaining doll that has been released has no cracks through it’s middle, this one is solid. I now stand; acceptance.

I know we’re all dolls. I know we’re all the same. All of our lives are as fragile as each other’s; we’re all ripped apart by the same fingers. We’re just paper dolls. It’s not always the fingers who rip us apart; we can easily be torn apart when our own hands slip from one another. Little tears can add up when you’re made of paper. We’re all dolls, living together in the Doll House.

The fox joins the hounds by Marcus Hall

The infernal regions, the realm of souls adrift, this is where I found myself. I stood motionless, neither in heaven nor hell. I stood with the dead, those that have been forgotten. Here dwell victims of bloodshed, forever hunting unseen prey in their quest for revenge. I was the same as them but different. They appeared to be unconscious, floating as if in a dream. So oblivious to their surroundings, in a play they would have been props rather than actors, yet I was unable to control the myriad of thoughts that snaked their way through my mind. I am different. I am different. I am different.



Time is meaningless in this strange place of the forsaken. Hours, weeks, days are indistinguishable from one another; a single indeterminate period of time stretching into the darkness. In the beginning, this harsh purgatory was like being enveloped in a thick fog; neither light now dark. The grey air blurred, distorting my sight, my senses. A substance that felt solid yet could not be touched; it engulfed my mind and my body, forcing itself on my senses until it was all I could comprehend. If it were possible to choke I would have done so, yet I had no need to breathe. I was different. I was different. I was different.



Eventually something moved within me, the fog encouraged a formless, foreign desire. The dense air around me began to pulsate in harmony with a hunger that burned deeply in my heart. This craving seemed almost tangible, before rapidly moving beyond my grasp. I recall an incomprehensible chorus of voices penetrating the fog, circling my mind and repeating endlessly like a broken record. They urged me on, thirsting for something. I found myself increasingly desperate to listen and to understand the soft staccato sound that throbbed and beat in rhythm. Detached though I was, this newborn energy stirred in my new body. I can compare it to no other feeling. I think I was different. I think I was different. I think I was different.



When the rain fell, the fog dissipated, my eyes readjusting, pupils contracting. Then I saw Him. He looked dead, though his eyes were alive with fury. Drips of water cut swathes through the dark particles encrusted on his body. His expression exuded primeval menace. Searching for something or nothing, I could not discern, but I felt as if I was looking into my own reflection. The sheer power of the connection was overwhelming; I felt the energy flowing through my eyes into my body. A gateway had been opened. Materializing out of nowhere, more figures surrounded me. A powerful undercurrent of insatiable anger coursed through these creatures, incessant, whispering like a wind in the quiet rain. I was not afraid. I stood with these creatures, my kin. I found I was mouthing the words of the whispers before I knew them, watching myself in the faces of others. I am different. I am different. I am different.



My vision flashes crimson red, over and over as if a new lens is forming; on a deep level I know this is the final stage, my transformation is almost complete. The flashes increase in speed until all I can see is a strobe of red. This deep red echoes my desire and amplifies a wrath that I know no amount of blood can quench. The faces around me flawlessly mirror the animalistic cravings that writhe within me, fighting to escape this prison of flesh. The flashing stops and my vision remains red as we speak as one;



I am the dark of night I am mistrust I am jealousy I am pain I am atrocity I am the future I am the past I am the destroyer of worlds I am death



I am One

I am One
I am One

The Colour of Sunrise by Paige Campbell

The Colour of Sunrise- Epilogue
Things are easier said than done. It’s a fact. Me mother said I would be a smart guy; a lawyer, a doctor, a business man with lots of money. I wish! Truth is, me name is Cameron Stirling and I’m a garbage man. I’m paid eight fifty an hour and I get up at four thirty AM Monday through Friday. I don’t hate my lie, but it ain’t great either. It’s a lonely way to live. At thirty one I'm still as alone as I've ever been, and as far as I know, it’s stayin’ that way.

Monday
5.55AM
Fuck! Me hands are freezin’! We’re just turnin’ into the main street of town from the southern end of Portland Drive. From here I have the perfect view of the sunrise. Today it’s a pinkish orange, the kind you find in the flesh of a flawlessly ripened grapefruit. The clouds are a pale grey in the distance; beautiful, but threatenin’.
I pick up the next standard tin-can bin and catch me reflection in the side mirror of the truck. Me face is pallid with the cold, eyes sunken’ and dark with sleepless shadows. Unconsciously I lift the bin onto the flip board and see the driver press the button on the dash in front of him. I watch as the two claw-like prongs on the sides of the board tighten around the cylinder and lift it high into the back of the truck, tip it up, then bring it back down to the bitumen. I take off the now empty trash can and replace it with another.
Me rhythm is slow and in time with the harsh churnin’ from deep inside the truck. I look up again to find the sky has become a gloomy shade of tainted orange; the grey clouds have thickened and appear to be sinkin’ lower in the sky.
It’ll rain today.

Tuesday
10.23AM
Me shoes and socks are drenched again. Me jeans and jacket are soaked through. Christ. Even me bloody boxers are soppin’ wet. The murky green-grey clouds outside continue to toss down the rain with anger, concealin’ any trace of the magenta painted sky and the fleetin’ golden sun that rose almost alone earlier this mornin’ escorted only by a few shining rays of light before disappearing behind the veil of storm clouds.
I'm greeted back at me small apartment by the familiar creak of the front door. It’s a dingy little apartment; only two windows in the whole place, one’s cracked and the other stares at the rundown cement wall of the ancient warehouse across the back alley. The electrics in the front room don’t work and the wall behind me buzzin’ fridge remains crawlin’ with termites, even after several visits from the local pest control company. I squelch me way to the bedroom and start strippin’ out of me cold clothes. Matty the Mutt looks at me with hungry eyes.
“Yeah yeah, I know ya ‘ungry!” The dog lowers his sorry head and closes his eyes.
“You’re always ‘ungry.”
After a steamin’ hot shower, the type that makes me fingers resemble the prunes me grandmother use to eat, I walk to the cramped kitchen and take out another tin of pureed kidney and vegetables. It slops out of the can and into the god bowl with a wet thud. It’s still in the shape of a cylinder.
Gross. Smells like shit. Don’t look much different neither. Still, Matty is up to his nose in the stuff and I just laugh and grab the Frosty Flakes. I don’t bother with milk.

Wednesday
6.01PM
“Thir’y bucks for a Hawaiian pizza!” The young guy on the other end says somethin’ about another fiver for delivery.
“Stuff it! I’ll be there in twenny! Me pizza betta be ready!” I slam down the receiver hard enough to make a dent in the cheap plastic department-store holder. I grab me denim jacket and Mattys’ lead from an old hook in the shadows of the front room,
“OI MUTT! TIME FOR A WALK YA BLOO’Y FATARSE!” Matty comes boundin’ down the hall pantin’ and jumpin’ against me legs. Digs definitely don’t understand English. That's the great thing though, yell obscenities at the things and they still look at you with those hush puppy eyes of love.
It’s cold outside. The wind is icy, racin’ down from the south and whippin’ up into the northern hills hard enough to leave your skin burning and raw. The mutt is happy, bouncin’ along after the last of the fallen leaves, forgotten from the previous season. Me on the other hand, I'm miserable. Tired and havin’ to resist all urges to take Matty back home and seek refuge at Green Bottles; the local pub.
The sun has just completed its slow decent from the sky, hiding itself behind the distant horizon in the west. The last glimmering blades of light shooting into the smoky purple world above, to be lost among the flickering stars. This morning the pale rose sky had been cut with those same blades, revealin’ gashes and powder blue veins that were to bleed out slowly and cover the cloudless sky.
“What was that!?”
Matty the Mutt has stopped dead in his tracks, his hackles raised and rigid, peering into an alley across the eerily desolate road. Quickly I cross the blackened street, pullin’ the dog behind me. Bloody wimp of a think he is. As I reach the narrow alley I see movement among the shadows granted by some sinister candescent glow from an unknown source. Without contemplatin’ why, I walk straight into the corrupt darkness and cautiously carry on until finally I come even with an ancient warehouse light that's hummin' softly outside a worn plaster door.
In the tarnished radiance of the old bulb I lower my eyes to the ground at me feet. A young girl, maybe ten or eleven years old is lyin’ there. Her vivid emerald eyes a stunnin’ contrast to her ink black hair, the two precious stones stare up at the distant sky, rooted with shock. A circular hole, no larger than a small coin is round in her creamy skinned forehead, one petite porcelain hand rests calmly below another identical hole on the left hand side of her chest. Matty comes even with me, whimperin’ and sniffin’ around the scarlet liquid poolin’ around her figure. I watch as her dress stained a deep red, leavin’ only the memory of the once brilliant azure silk.
Suddenly The mutt looks up and I follow his gaze. Before us, just within the feeble reach of the murky illumination, I glimpse a flash of crisp white shirt and black dress pants. There is a faint clatter of metal on concrete and he is gone. Warily, I force myself forward, steppin’ over the body in the slender alley towards where the gun was dropped. I pick it up, the metal is surprisingly warm in me tremblin’ hand. Through the gloomy light I check the small 9mm. Two shots left.

Friday
4.45AM
I am now entirely sure that me toaster is incapable of making toast without burnin’ the bread to the brink of destruction, regardless of how low I adjust the settin’ on the bloody thing.
“SON-OF-A!” I stick me burnin’ finger in me mouth and use the nearest knife to help transfer the charred toast to the breadboard. I spread copious amounts of butter and jam over both pieces and set it down on the linoleum floor at me feet. Matty will find it when he wakes. I hate toast. Instead I stuff a banana in me mouth, down it in two swallows and follow it with a few gulps of milk from the bottle.
Pickin’ up me keys I reach for me garbos shirt and denim jacket. Me head turns quickly to a sharp clunk sound. The gun. Suddenly the past to days roar abruptly out of the hidden crevasse in me mind, into which I had forced them by drinking myself into a stupor. I dimly remember stumbling home yesterday at some time vaguely resembling 5am, leaving behind the comforting haze of cigarette smoke and abandoned memories that is Green Bottles, to finally sleep for twenty hours, wakin’ just once to call in sick for work. Only no do I remember how maliciously real that night was.
Without thinkin’, I wedge the cold callous gun in the back of me pants like they do on TV. It’s bloody uncomfortable and I realise the steel barrel is aimed right where the sun don’t shine. Hastily, I retrieve the gun and check the safety. Blushin’ to no one I turn the safety on. Its simple enough and I immediately feel great gratitude for all the stereotypical cops and robbers flicks I watched unblinkingly as an adolescent. Stuffin’ the gun into me pants again, I pull o me jacket and trudge down to the apartment car park.
A hard frost hit last night and me car is sweet asylum from the frigid cold. For the first time the 1978 Commodore starts one the first go.

6.19AM
The cool metal against me backside is more than just annoyin’, it’s frightenin’.
I watch another aluminium bin become airborne, but I’m oblivious to the deep churnin’ comin’ from the vicious belly of the truck. Somethin’ catches me eye. The lid of a nearby trash can is askew and somethin’ obscure is pokin’ out. I leave me station from the side of the truck to take a closer look. Objections trail somewhere in my wake on the road behind me as I draw nearer to the bin. I realise now exactly what I'm seein’; a crumpled white Egyptian cotton business shirt and a very new lookin’ pair of suit pants. I reach in within a determined hand and pull the clothes out. The lid drops to the ground and I hold out the shirt in front of me and the right sleeve draws my attention. There are only two dots, small and dark crimson on the cuff.
I look up to the house and over its terracotta roof... the sunrise is a deep blood red today.

---

2009 Winners

Sleep until still by Calum Reid

'The rain like ting of sword 'pon shield; then the sound of hardened hail. Warriors meeting with raised swords and hackles, men dying below their soul-harvesting blades. Spears piercing again and again through the chaos, lightning through the clouded night. Muscles in the bronzed armour swell and fall with the pitch of the battle, boys and men dying in the third.

With strident strokes of his powerful legs,
hefting his great sword above their heads,
he brushed their weak bronze helmets off,
and with his fire consigned them to dust.'

Their eyes rest on him as the bard's tale lilts on. He smiles the smile that always makes the women hot (+ 4 C).
'Tis true. Every word, each man's ear I still have,' standing and bellowing with the drama of a true RP-er. 'I have cut the bonds of Princess Leia, I have stormed the castle Camelot, I have mud-wrestled with the Pope!'
Powerful muscles bulging, they cannot, do not, resist. His is the beating heart of a true gamer.
With his tremendous endurance (30 E) every woman in the inn is laid within the night, and he settles down to sleep with an hour till dawn.

It was the broad of day when the die was cast. Interrupting him at midnight he'd still be woken. But with the mead still pounding his skull, he buried his head amid the pile of women (Multiple Courter Feat) as the sun rose to fruition.
Then in she crept, a murderer brightly dressed. Her left hand held the dagger, her right a cloud of dust, but he was no fool (18 I), he knew they'd come. She pounced, he rolled, she hilted the dagger in his shoulder, with the same arm he lay her down. A snaked hiss and the dust flew in his eyes. He had her arms and used his head again and again against her face (Blind Fight Feat). He made a constitution save every minute for the next ten. Eventually his eyes cleared and he saw who she was.
'...mother? But... but... you're only level 10! ...Mum! Wake up! I know you're a Rouge! That (Fake Death) doesn't work on me!'
Her eyes switch open, she gives him a glare (less imposing then her out of game one).
He grimaces, 'This is about the dishes isn't it?'
A shrill shriek. 'It's not JUST about the dishes, your university is failing you and you haven't seen Sandy for so long she thinks you must be dead!'
She calms the eerie way mothers do (+ 10 imposing?). 'Look Jake, you're spending too long in here.'
He lets her go and rises, but still watches her with hawked eyes.
'It's just a game Jake. God! I don't much like the girl but you seriously need to do something in the real world even if it's seeing Sandy. Anything would do!'
Her face is wrinkled from the years he put her through. 'The real world is more important than this...'
'Mum,' he breathed the smallest breath, 'Mum, I'm a hero.'
'Jake-'
'I am a hero, a hero in this world. Back there, I could get a job, an average wife, a steady income, kids, and a stifling desire to throw myself off a bridge.'
He brushes the bloodied hair from his face. 'I've tried real life. Your level cap is built into your DNA. I can never be a businessman, a writer, a singer, an actor. I can be one man and one man only. He's Jake Donnovich, and he's poor and unintelligent.'
'But he's you! Don't you see Jake! He's you! I can't hug what you are now! You only move in a digital form.'
'Mum! I've got a job here. I harvest gold for newbies. It's not much but it pays for liquid food, and my subscription. Everything else I just reach out my fist and grab.'
'So life's TOO hard! Boohoo! We all feel that way! We plod along from disaster to disaster bemoaning our lives every day. But that pain we go through, that feeling of anger at the world - it's real! God damn it Jake! It's real!'
Tears settle on her cheeks, run down her chin. Back in real life her tears would be lost amidst the wrinkles and cracks of her face.
He sits exhausted down on the edge of the bed. A woman starts to massage his back, the rest simper at him. 'Mum - books, movies, plays, liquor, drugs, even clothes, cars and fancy watches. Dating a girl I pretend to like. They're all just escapism mum. At the end of every day I went to bed early, to sleep as long as I could. I didn't want to be well-rested, I wasn't tired. My whole life mum, I've just wanted to dream. Life is a brief speck and I don't want to spend it contemplating death. I want to live my life doing that which I enjoy. I'm not hurting anyone-'
She interrupts sharply, 'You're hurting me Jake!'
Her emotional pull grasps at me with searing iced hands.
'Mum, I just want to dream! If you can't cope with my different kind of happiness, then all I can say mum, is forget me. Pretend that I was a dream. Let me drift away like the best dreams always do, before I haunt you as the nightmare you're making me be.'
With a sigh I heft up the sword and bring it down through her abdomen as she gasps a last breath, '-Jake-'

The truth by Sara Nelson

The ferocious drip is attacking my spine; the strength of my existence is demanding revenge. I want murder, destruction! I shall scream until my vocal box breaks, until the rain torrents down upon all the weak, futile, domineering, selfish c---s who deserve no more than the sick flames of fire. Get swallowed! The Beast shall find you, the monster of relentless tentacles and unfeasible stench. You know not until you have suffered. Your arm wants that needle?! It wants that needle real bad? A drink, perhaps? Or a cone to soothe, soothe, soothe the fast-paced rush of nothingness? Let's get you that needle! Shove it in your arm, behind your knee, in your foot, up your neck, deep in your eye. Let the sensation spread – would you call it sweet? Sweetness is the honey of the bees. This is the manufactured, chemical, demonic Fang that bites until it draws blood and wants to become a part of you, live with you, take you. Would you call it spicy? Spiciness is the chilli harvest. This is the blaze that will envelope all brain-terrain; make your accidental stumble a flat Knock Out.

Heat by Mary Quinlan

The sweat runs down her body in shining waves, slicking her hair; collecting; reminding her of all the weight she's been meaning to lose. Her thighs are rhythmically sticking and un-sticking from the long-matted fuzz of the ancient bus seat. The bus is more than half full, but the only sounds are of the government-abandoned engine, the grinding of angry teeth and the steady rhythm of sweating thighs.
Suddenly, from the back row, a shocked yell startles both passengers and driver. Heads snap back to see the angry young man who has burnt his arm on the overheated metal underneath the bus window. "What are you looking at?" the young man growls, and the sweaty, overweight woman two rows in front of him quickly turns her head to look out the window.
The young man swears under his breath and all of the passengers hear. The old woman near the front covers the small child's ears. The miserable engine gives an extra loud clunk of loneliness and there is a collective slap of sweaty thighs on sweaty seats. "Is that language really necessary?" asks the iron-haired man from behind a newspaper and a pair of dark glasses. "Hey, fuck you", the young man spits. The old woman cringes and the overweight woman closes her eyes, melts into her seat and trickles away.
Newspaper rustles and dark glasses lower to fix the angry young man with a stormy gaze. "Freak," the young man mutters. He shifts away from the iron glare and burns his arm again. This time his cursing has even the time-hardened bus driver squirming. The overweight woman is a puddle on the floor. The heat is working its mischief.
A greasy teenage boy near the middle of the bus struggles to suppress a snigger as he witnesses the young man's misfortune and childish outbursts. The angry young man glares at the boy, but the ignorant youth just grins and stares back. The young man wraps his sweaty hand around the handrail near his seat. Behind his smiling eyes the boy feels the first pangs of fear and the old woman with the child rings the bell for the bus to stop.
The young man pulls himself out of his seat, but his sharp, fluid movement is poorly timed and he overbalances as the bus driver wakes from his stupor and grinds the bus to a sudden halt. The young man lands on his face in the aisle, right next to the boy, who is now in peals of laughter. The old woman tries desperately to disentangle her walking-frame from the mass of shopping in the bus's luggage bay. The pink, floral Zimmer was decorated by her grandchildren on a much cooler day, but now the happy flowers and colours seem out of place inside the scorching bus.
The angry young man slowly rises from the floor, his eyes locked on his victim, the heat buzzing in his brain. The boy is no longer laughing and suddenly feels as if he is glued to the seat; his sweat and his fear holding him in place. He doesn't know why, but he is suddenly thinking of the pretty girl who sits in front of him in an air-conditioned classroom somewhere far, far away.
The tiny child is attempting to help her grandmother free the out of place Zimmer. All of the other passengers are too spellbound by the drama playing out in slow motion at the back of the bus to be of any assistance.
The angry young man is now standing and the other passengers are suddenly aware of his impressive height. There is a collective sick feeling in stomachs as the man lets out a guttural cry of rage. The only sound is that of the old woman's Zimmer banging against shopping as the man brings back his fist. Iron hair and dark glasses move impossibly fast and the young man has a knife in his back before the newspaper hits the ground.
The body falls into the seat behind the startled boy.
The iron-haired man walks down the aisle towards the door, stooping to retrieve the newspaper.
The overweight woman feels suddenly very solid again, as though she has been filled with lead.
The old woman stares as iron hands lift the helpless Zimmer from its cage.
The wide-eyed child hides behind her grandmother and the blood begins to drip onto the floor.
"Goodness it's hot," the iron-haired man observes as he helps the old woman off the bus.
The driver swings the doors shut behind them, keeping the heat onboard as the lonely engine whimpers and thumps and the hot blood drip, drip, drips onto the floor, keeping time.


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